Better Days
by Rosewood17
Summary: AU/No Zombies - Civil War Era - Beth is a GA farmer's daughter trying to help her Daddy make a living after the Southern surrender. Daryl is a Confederate soldier returning home after the Battle of Appomattox. When he stumbles across the Greene family farm and ends up signing on to work the cotton season, everyone's life will change. Better Days are sure to be ahead.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, beautiful people! I'm SO happy to be back to the fanfiction world. I can't tell you how many Bethyl AU ideas have been pinging around in my brain for the past couple of months! This is one of my very favorite ideas, but it's very different from anything I've ever done.**

 **Let me start off by saying this: I LOVE Civil War history! I'm a Southern girl and a history teacher, and I've probably seen and read most of the things that there are to see and read about the Civil War. It was my historical focus in college. So, when I got the idea to do a Beth/Daryl story set during the Civil War, I absolutely couldn't resist!**

 **I've tried to be as faithful to the time period as possible! All of the statistics, events, and historical facts are as accurate as my research could make them. For real, y'all, I was talking about it with my little sister, and she was like, "Nobody cares what the actual price per pound of cotton was in 1865." But I do, lol.**

 **I've also tried to stay as true to the characters as possible. They have had to undergo some extremely minor tweaking though. Daryl is still surly, but a little more mannerly because of the time period. Beth might be a little stronger than Season 2 Beth because she's survived a war and earned her Steel Magnolia badge. Either way, I'm still REALLY happy and excited about what I have planned, and I hope you love it too!**

 **These first few introductory chapters are a little short, but will get longer as we get into things! As always, I love you all, and I hope you enjoy!**

 **Better Days - Chapter 1**

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Beth Greene paused from bending over her vegetable garden and wiped her forehead with the square of flannel that she kept tucked under her apron string. How the Good Lord could allow the sun to get this hot and hard in April was beyond her understanding. They weren't even properly into the summer yet, and already the thermometer that her daddy had tacked to the barn wall was creeping up over 80 degrees. She sighed, tucking a wayward strand of blonde hair back into her braid and continued weeding her row of butter beans. Truth be told, she was too old now to go around wearing her hair down in a braid. But that was only one of the many proprieties that folks had given up on now that they were into the fourth year of this war. In addition, her last net had broken a few weeks back, so there was no reason to bother now.

Upon reaching the end of her row, Beth straightened, stretching to relieve the bunched muscles in her lower back. Lifting her hand to shade her eyes from the afternoon sun, Beth peered down the lane, hoping to see her daddy returning. He'd ridden into town that morning, and since his accident, Beth was always overly cautious about him being out on his own. Her father - proud, Irish, Hershel Greene - would have laughed at her worries, but she couldn't help it. Aside from a sister a thousand miles away, he was the only real family she had left.

She sighed with heavy satisfaction as she allowed her gaze to settle over the neat rows of spring crops that were starting to pop up out of the ground. Before the War started, she'd known next to nothing about growing things. Her Mama had been determined to see her properly educated and Hershel had her big brother, Shawn, for help around the farm. But with Mama and Shawn both in the ground, one from consumption and the other from Antietam shrapnel, it had fallen to her to help Hershel with the planting. And times being what they were, they were mostly planting food. She knew it pained Hershel to see his good cotton acres lying fallow, but with no trade lines open to the Union or England, planting cotton was a fool's folly. Hershel had been one of the few small farmers wise enough to switch to edibles at the start of the war and, because of it, they'd never starved. Been hungry, sure - but never starved.

Beth threw her collected basket of weeds into the barrel reserved for composting and was just pumping water up to rinse her hands when she heard the distinct sound of hooves coming up the dirt lane. She turned, wiping her hands on the side of her threadbare apron, and relief flooded her heart to see Hershel returning - cantering wildly in her direction. She rushed out to meet him, wondering what in the world would cause him to come at such a speed.

"Beth, it's finished!" he hollered, pulling his horse's reigns so tightly that they both skidded to a stop.

He flung his leg awkwardly over the saddle and jumped to the ground, staggering a little to regain his balance. Hershel had fallen off a ladder earlier in the year, turning a slight limp left over from the Mexican war into a full-fledged problem that required him to walk with a cane. Beth tried to hide her concern, as she knew it would only make him protest that he was fine.

"What is, Daddy?" she asked, pulling his cane from its secure spot on his saddle and placing it in his hand before he fell over.

"The war," Hershel said, finally, the relief visible in his face, "Word just came in at the wire office in Senoia. General Lee has surrendered and the rest are sure to follow."

"Surrendered?" Beth confirmed, trying to stave off the bubble of panic that rose in her chest, "What will that mean?"

"No one's positive yet," Hershel replied, his expression grave, "The slaves will be freed, first off, and after that - it's in the Lord's hands."

Beth struggled to take it all in. The emancipation didn't worry her; their farm wasn't a large one, and, as far as she knew, no one in their family had ever owned slaves. Though he was a believer in state's rights, Hershel Jeremiah Greene was a man who didn't hold with owning people. But she had no idea what it would mean for Georgia as a whole. She'd heard talk at the ladies' sewing circle that if the Yankees won, they'd bring martial law and thousands of soldiers all through the South. It could mean the end of their freedom. And what in the world would happen to all those poor men who'd fought so bravely? They were still up in Yankee territory, and she had no idea when or how they'd get home safely.

"Rumor in town is that the terms of the surrender were peaceable," Hershel continued, "Some folks are even sayin' that General Grant was very generous."

"Does that mean that we'll get to keep our land?" Beth asked, "And that the men will get to come home with no trouble?"

"I hope so, Sugar" Hershel intoned, placing his rough hand on her shoulder, "I reckon the thing to do now is wait. And plant."

"Oh, Daddy," Beth struggled not to roll her eyes, "Surely the trade lines won't open up so soon - and besides that, we haven't the money for seeds."

A mischievous twinkle, one she hadn't seen in far too long, crept into Hershel's eyes as he crooked his finger at her and turned in the direction of the house. She followed him impatiently, knowing that asking wouldn't do her any good. He'd been talking about the end of the war and getting his acres back to cotton for months now. Beth knew her father was a stubborn man, but stubbornness alone wasn't going to produce ten acres worth of cotton seed. When he stopped long enough to lift the flap on the outdoor cellar, Beth couldn't hold back her frustration.

"Daddy, what in heaven's name are you doing?" she fussed, "You know those stairs are too narrow. Now just tell me what you need, and I'll fetch it for you."

"Elizabeth Caroline," Hershel warned, his tone telling her that even though she was nineteen, he'd be tolerating no sass-mouthing.

"Sorry, Daddy," she apologized in a huff, "I just don't understand what's down here that you could possibly need so bad that-"

She stopped immediately when he began moving jars of preserves off of the shelf in the very back of the cellar. She felt very real panic when she considered, for just a moment, that Hershel might have lost his senses. Her concern turned to disbelief however, when he slid the now-empty shelf away from the wall to reveal a locked door that she'd never seen before in her life. She watched in awe as Hershel selected a key from the ring that he kept in his coat pocket and unlocked the door to reveal a dusty room.

In the dim light, Beth could barely make them out, but when she realized that she was looking at sacks and sacks of dried cotton seeds she couldn't stop herself from letting out a squeal of excitement and wrapping her arms around Hershel's shoulders.

"But when did you - How in the world di..." she stammered, knowing full well that they hadn't had a stitch of extra money since the harvest of 1861.

Hershel chuckled and patted her on the back.

"It made good sense to switch to vegetables after Fort Sumter," he said knowingly, "But I figured that whenever all this mess was over, England and Massachusetts would be needin' their cotton again. I used the last of the harvest money from '61 to stock up on dried seed that would keep down here."

Beth felt tears sting her eyes. It felt like she had something to look forward to for the first time in three years. She couldn't stop the combination of laugh and sob that shook her chest as she thought about the fact that they might be able to turn a profit and get back on their feet this year. They'd done better than most the past few years, but it had still been a mighty struggle.

"I'm goin' to ride over to Patricia and Jimmy's and tell them we'll start plowing tomorrow," he continued, "Why don't you head into the house and see about some supper?"

"Bring them back with you!" she urged, "We should celebrate; and I think I have just enough molasses left to make buckwheat cakes."

"I will, Sugar," he assured her, pulling her into a tight hug, "We're goin' to eat a feast tonight, and then tomorrow we're goin' to get that seed in the ground."

"Well, in that case," she said, laughing as she swiped at the tears on her cheeks, "It was awfully mannerly of the war to end at the beginning of planting season."

With that, Hershel laughed - a deep, hearty belly-laugh - and Beth believed, for the first time in a long time, that better days were ahead.

 **So, how'd I do? Too different? Too weird? Also, we'll see what Daryl's up to in the next chapter! Let me know what you thought! Love y'all!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, I had planned on writing the second chapter later, but I just got so excited that I couldn't stop! Thank you to the folks who've reviewed! Keep 'em coming!**

 **Here's our introduction to Daryl and his world. I put him in the Talbot County Guards which was the 9th Infantry unit out of Georgia. They formed in 1861 and served with General Lee's Army of Northern Virginia all the way to the surrender at Appomattox Courthouse.**

 **I hope you like it!**

 **Better Days - Chapter 2**

Corporal Daryl Dixon rolled his exhausted shoulders twice before picking up the bucket of dirty water at his feet and dousing his small fire. He squinted around him in the early morning light and saw that he was one of the first to stir. All around him, barefoot men in tattered gray wool slept in heaps around the slowly dying fires. He wrinkled his nose against the stench of smoke, unwashed bodies, and defeat, and set to packing up his rucksack. It sure as hell wouldn't take him very long.

Even though it seemed like a lifetime ago, it was just yesterday that Daryl had stood shoulder to shoulder with the other men of the 9th Georgia Infantry and listened to General Lee tell the entire Army of Northern Virginia that he'd surrendered. No one made a sound. The men, too exhausted and hungry to cry out in protest, had merely stood there trying not to let on to their relief. It was over. Four years - he and Merle had signed on at the start - and not a damn thing to show for it. And now, after just starting to feel like a part of something for the first time in his miserable life, Daryl had no idea what to do with himself. Merle had been missing or dead since Gettysburg, and there was no good way of tracking him down without heading home.

And after four years of marching, sleeping outside, and ignoring Christmas furloughs, Daryl wasn't positive that he could recall what Talbot County, Georgia even looked like anymore. With Merle missing and their father dead, he supposed that the two room cabin belonged to him now. God only knew what he should do with it.

Now that it was all over and done with, Daryl realized that he never expected to make it out of this war alive. Better men than him had died, and he'd only come along to keep Merle out of serious trouble in the first place. Every single day after Gettysburg he'd thought about leaving. He was a good tracker; nobody would find him if he didn't want to be found. But he'd stayed - mostly for reasons that he wasn't really sure of himself. Maybe that's what he'd ponder as he walked home.

Captain Grimes had told him yesterday that he was crazy to walk. Now that the tracks were cleared, a train would be coming in a few days to carry as many folks home as possible. A good few of the men were waiting for it. For some of them it had been months since they'd had a full meal or a pair of shoes. And while Daryl's brogans that he'd taken off of a dead Yankee had wholes in the soles, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do less than be packed into a train car like livestock and stay that way for hours on end. He didn't care if he had to walk for weeks and eat worms the whole way. He wasn't getting in any damn train car.

With his pack ready and his fire out, he headed for the dirt road that he knew led South. To his reckoning, it would take him anywhere from two to three weeks to make it home, and he was eager to find something to eat - a rabbit or a squirrel maybe. He was just to the edge of the massive circle of men when a voice to his left stopped him.

"Corporal," he heard, and turned to see his Captain leaning against a fence post, smoking a hand-rolled cigar.

He immediately backtracked and saluted. There weren't too many men in this world that Daryl respected without question, but Captain Rick Grimes was one of them.

"Come on, Daryl," the Captain laughed bitterly, "I reckon we're passed all that, now."

Daryl shrugged.

"Seemed fittin', seein' as how this is your last day as a Captain and all."

"And I'm glad for it," Rick replied, "It's 'bout time for me to be gettin' home to my family. As soon as the last of the Talbot Guard is gone, I'm makin' straight for home."

"On the train?" Daryl asked.

"General Grant allowed us to keep our horses," Rick replied, failing to keep the disdain out of his tone.

"Kind of 'im," Daryl seconded, with equal sarcasm.

"You still bent on walkin'" Rick asked, assessing Daryl's packed and ready appearance.

"Mmm-hmm," Daryl mumbled, "I'll take my chances."

"It'll take you weeks," Rick countered.

"Better than not bein' able to breathe, eat, or take a piss in that train car," Daryl said decisively.

"Fair's fair, then" Rick relented, extending his hand for Daryl to shake.

He hesitated only a moment before taking Rick's hand. When you were a Dixon in Talbot County, you didn't have much opportunity for handshaking, and Daryl was still getting used to it being offered.

"You're a good soldier and good man, Corporal," Rick said, shaking his hand decisively, "If you know where our house is in town, you come on by sometime. Tell the missus how you saved my hide at Petersburg."

Daryl allowed the edge of his mouth to curl up in a smile - more at the thought of a white-trash, backwoods Dixon walking up to the front door of the Sheriff's house than anything else.

"Thank you, Captain, " he said, "Take care."

"You too, Daryl."

With the one goodbye that he was glad he'd gotten to say behind him, Daryl set his steps Southward and didn't look back.

* * *

Cursing a blue streak, Daryl kicked fruitlessly at the dirt while he watched the only bird he'd seen in days take off from the tree in front of him and fly out of his range. Seeing as how he was out of ammunition for everything except his Colt Navy revolver, he had to be relatively close to whatever it was he wanted to shoot. Not that there was much left to shoot.

Damn Sherman and his Yankee army to Hell. They'd been marching South in huge arcs, setting whole towns on fire and scaring off any game for miles. When Daryl had told Captain Grimes that he'd eat worms if he had to, he hadn't actually planned on having to do that. He'd been hungry before, but it was getting to the point where he knew he wouldn't be able to walk much further without some food and rest.

Sleep was as hard to come by as food. The first time he'd tried, a passel of Union soldiers walking the opposite direction had caught up to him and tried to demand his rifle and sidearm. He wasn't making that mistake twice, but then again, neither were they.

As best he could figure, he'd been walking for two weeks. He was relatively positive that he was in Georgia, and was planning on asking exactly where he was in the next town he came to. That was, if he didn't starve to death first. He'd eaten some tree bark that Merle had taught him about when they were kids, but he knew something had to give. He'd tried to buy something a ways back; but the only money he had was Confederate paper, which was all but useless at this point. Folks wanted to trade in gold, and he didn't have any.

He spotted a large patch of cleared land in the trees and hoped like hell that it was a town or a farm. Maybe he could offer to work a day for some food.

After another half a mile or so he heard voices coming from the clearing, which appeared to be the fields of a farm. He approached quietly, staying in the tree line. Daryl had always been the type to size up a situation before walking into it.

Though he was too far away to hear any of their conversation directly, he saw immediately that there wouldn't be any threat to him. There were two men - one old enough to have snowy white hair and beard, and the other probably not even shaving yet. They were plowing field with two mules, but Daryl could see from his vantage point that the older fella had a hard time walking. The younger was doing all right, but was clearly inexperienced and having a hard time controlling the mule and keeping a straight line. The Dixons weren't farmers, but Daryl had done enough odd jobs in his younger days that he'd learned a thing or two about it.

In addition to the men, Daryl was impressed to see two ladies who, while they couldn't have lifted the plows, were diligently hoeing the plowed earth into mounds for cotton plants. Things must have gotten bad down here if there were ladies working the fields on a farm this big. It didn't look large enough to qualify as a plantation, but even farmers with this much land usually kept their womenfolk in the house. No one had to tell him that wartime was no picnic, but it might have had more of an effect than he realized on the folks left at home.

He stood there a minute and observed this small group of struggling planters, deciding what to do. His father had told him once that Dixons don't ask for help. Even though old lessons die hard, he also knew that he'd never make it home to Talbot if he didn't get some food and rest.

He didn't like it much, but with mind made up, he left the quiet of the tree line and made his way towards the old man. It didn't occur to him that he hadn't seen his reflection in months until he saw how wide and shocked the women's eyes got as he approached.

 **Just for a small historical note - The Talbot Guard was a real infantry company, and during the Civil War all companies were made up of men from the same county! So Rick and Daryl living in the same geographic vicinity is actually pretty historically accurate! It also wasn't uncommon for a town's sheriff to be made Captain of his Company. Yay, because their paths will end up crossing again later!**

 **Thanks so much for reading and let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello lovely people! Thanks so much for all the reviews! I'm glad to know that there are some historical romance junkies like me out there! Now that we're getting into the story properly, the chapters will get longer and more involved. Just to give you fair warning, I'm usually a slooooow mover when it comes to the romance. And with this story being historical, it'll probably be even more of a slow burn. I just like giving people are realistic amount of time to get to know each other before they jump into anything. I like the little moments. My last Bethyl story was 12 chapters, and I think this one will be much longer. There are so many different possibilities with this AU and setting! I'm excited!**

 **For now, we get to see Daryl interact with the family for the first time. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Better Days - Chapter 3**

As Daryl approached the group in the field, he was keenly aware of the way all eyes raked over him and, what he was sure was, his sorry appearance. At the very best of times, Daryl wasn't the sort of man to be concerned with the length of his hair or the stubble on his face, but he knew he must look a fright. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had a proper bath or shave, and his uniform was a tattered mess. With his family's reputation he was accustomed to folks being cautious of him, but he fought to keep the burn out of his cheeks as he noted the palpable fear coming from the older of the two women. A cursory glance at the younger revealed something more akin to curiosity, but he was still uncomfortable with the spectacle he was making.

He focused his intentions on the old man, who he figured to be in charge, and made a point of removing his cap as he approached.

"Mornin'," he muttered, his voice raspy from disuse, "Is there any chance you could use an extra hand in exchange for a meal?"

The white haired man set his plow on the ground and approached him, but didn't respond yet.

"I've plowed before, and I'm right handy when it comes to fixin' things."

The older man stopped directly in front of him and sized him up. Daryl couldn't blame him - after all he had these women to watch out for. After a long moment, the man extended his hand for Daryl to shake, and he was so dirty that he felt bad doing it.

"You're goin' home from the front line?" the older man asked.

"Yessir," Daryl nodded tightly, "From Virginia."

"How much further do you have?"

"Talbot County," he answered, " 'Bout another day or two, I reckon."

"I'm Hershel Greene," the man offered finally, " and we're not in the business of making hungry men who've served their country work before they eat around here."

"Well, I'm Daryl Dixon," he responded more firmly, "and I'm not in the habit of taking what isn't earned."

Hershel Greene's eyebrows shot up with, what Daryl thought might be, admiration.

"I have a great deal of respect for that attitude," Hershel said, finally unclasping his hand from Daryl's, "Which outfit are you from, soldier?"

"The 9th Georgia Infantry," Daryl replied. It was unusual for him to share so much about himself, but he reckoned that Hershel had a right to know who was coming onto his land. "I was an enlisted Corporal."

"Well then, Corporal Dixon, we're mighty glad to have your help," Hershel grinned, "As you can see, we're strugglin' a bit on our own."

Daryl made no comment on that, but made his way towards the plow. He wasn't in the market for conversation. If he could just plow for the rest of this day and get a meal and some sleep, he knew he could make it back home on that alone. It seemed that Hershel had other plans however.

"This is Patricia McCune," Hershel said indicating the older woman, "She and her husband have a cabin on the edge of the property. They've been working for me for nigh on twelve years now."

The woman nodded in his direction, but said nothing.

"Her husband, Otis, was killed at Chancellorsville," he continued, "And this is their boy Jimmy."

Another nod.

Hershel motioned to the younger woman, who stepped forward to stand at his side.

"This is my daughter Elizabeth," Hershel said, the warmth evident in his voice.

Daryl hazarded a glance at her pretty face when she extended her hand to him.

"My friends call me Beth," she said sweetly, meeting his eyes, "It's a pleasure, Corporal Dixon."

Daryl dropped her gaze quickly, just grazing his fingertips on hers. He supposed times were different now, but it still didn't seem fitting

"This is the last acre that we have to plow," Hershel explained, "The others have taken us quite a bit longer than we're accustomed to. Normally I'd hire more hands, but times bein' what they are, help is hard to come by."

"Hmmm," Daryl responded. He didn't want to seem disinterested, but what he wanted was to work, eat, and be on his way.

"With your help, I reckon we can finish by tonight," Hershel said with a smile, "That works out alright, cause I really wanted to get the seed in the ground by the start of next week."

"You got another plow you want me to use," Daryl asked gruffly, "Or'll this one do?"

Hershel chuckled a bit, the sound jarring Daryl's nerves. Laughter was something he had grown to forget.

"I'll gladly hand that one over to you," he smiled, "I'm not too proud to hoe with the ladies, and my leg aches somethin' powerful at the end of the day with that thing."

He knew that most folks would have asked what happened to Hershel's leg, but just walked past him and heaved the steel plow onto his shoulders. The mule rolled it's eyes warily, but settled when Daryl snapped the harness and began to steer on with steady confidence.

Daryl heard Hershel instruct the women to continue making mounds on the row he was plowing on, because he'd be faster. Hershel, himself, retrieved another plow from where it was stuck in the ground at the edge of the field, and began the same task after Jimmy's plow.

In the same pattern he'd been following for days now, Daryl gritted his teeth, ignored the burn of the Georgia sun on his shoulders and the hunger rumbling in his belly, and pushed on.

He'd reached the end of his third row and paused to wipe the sweat out of his eye when he noticed Hershel's daughter, Beth, approach him.

"Need a drink, Corporal?" she asked, offering him an old, tin, army canteen.

He thought of refusing, not wanting to interact any more than he had to, but his thirst overpowered his common sense, and he felt himself reach for it. After a deep swig, he handed it back with a nod.

"Thank you, Miss Greene," he forced himself to grunt, well aware of where his supper was coming from tonight.

"Anytime," she said with a smile, "Just holler if you need more."

He nodded, but knew he wouldn't ask. He couldn't help but follow her with his gaze for a moment. Small but shapely in a faded gingham dress and with wheat-colored hair that probably hung to her waist when free, she sure was a sight for eyes that hadn't seen anything but mud and death for four years.

Daryl shook his head and scolded himself for noticing. He had at least fifteen more rows to plow, and the pretty farmer's daughter certainly wasn't any business of his.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to sink behind the tree line when Hershel whistled from across the field and motioned Daryl over. With the minute amount of energy he had left, Daryl unhitched the plow, and hooked the carrying strap around the mule's neck. He led the animal to the side of the field where Hershel and Jimmy were doing the same. Hershel had sent the ladies back an hour or two before with instructions to kill some chickens and have supper ready. Daryl hadn't been able to think about anything other than chicken for the remainder of the time he plowed. He hoped to God that it was fried.

"Bout time for supper, huh boys?" Hershel asked leaning heavily on his cane.

"Yessir," Daryl and Jimmy replied almost in unison.

After leading the mules west for a little under a mile, they came upon a large white farmhouse with a red barn. Lights glowed from windows, and the smell of good cooking that wafted down the porch steps practically brought him to his knees.

As the group of three made their way to the house after feeding the mules and storing the equipment, Daryl hung back a little from the other men. In the few farms he'd worked on as a boy, the help certainly didn't stroll up the front steps and into the dining room.

He cleared his throat, causing Hershel to turn and look at him.

"You want me to head 'round back and meet Miss Greene at the kitchen door?" he asked, scuffing the worn-through toe of his boot in the red clay.

Hershel appraised him quizzically for a moment before slapping him on the back and lowering his voice to a personal level.

"I've got a policy on this farm, Corporal" he said, "If you work with family, you eat with family."

Daryl started to protest, but Hershel held up a hand, cutting him off.

"I won't have a Confederate hero eating on my porch," he intoned firmly, "Now I don't want to hear anything else about it."

Daryl sighed and tried to check the defensiveness rising in his chest. Why did this geezer have to be so damn polite? This would be so much more convenient for everyone if he just tossed Daryl some food, offered to let him sleep in the barn, and sent him on his way. A portion of his stubborn pride considered just walking away, but they his brain registered another waft of that cooking and he couldn't do it.

Reluctantly and warily, he followed Hershel up the front steps and into the nicest house he'd ever been in. Patricia and Beth were just setting the last of the food out on the massive dining room table. Hershel must have meant what he said about feeding his farm hands at his own table because it could easily have held sixteen. The settings were all clustered at the far end, however, with more food than Daryl had seen in years piled and steaming at the other end.

For just a moment he thought he'd died and gone to heaven when he saw mounds of steaming potatoes, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers in some kind of dressing, bread, okra, and the largest and most delicious looking platter of fried chicken he'd ever seen in his life. Growing up how he did, Daryl was raised mostly on game. A few times, he'd eaten at proper farms after working and had gotten fried chicken. It was his very favorite.

Hershel led him to a spot with a clean, white plate and a glass of sweet tea that was already sweating. It was all Daryl could do to get through Hershel saying grace before he dug into the best food he'd had in months. He noticed pretty Beth smile when he asked if he could have a second piece of chicken.

"Have all you want," she said, placing another piece on his plate, "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

"Best thing I've ate in years," he commented, earning another smile from her.

"Did you see much action?" the boy named Jimmy asked eagerly.

"Been with the Army of Northern Virginia since '61" he nodded, not sure what to make of the boy's enthusiasm. It was clear that Jimmy had never fought. He was probably too young when it all started up.

"Were you at Gettysburg?" Jimmy asked, awestruck.

"Lost my brother there," Daryl said quietly, surprising himself. He'd had no intention of sharing unnecessary details with these people. It was hard to remember that when he was sitting at their dining room table.

"I'm sorry to here that," Hershel commented, suddenly, "My boy, Shawn, was killed at Antietam."

"And Otis, at Chancellorsville," Patricia added tearfully, even though Hershel had said it a few hours before.

Daryl wasn't sure what to do with this outpouring of grief. He figured there wasn't a person left in the state of Georgia who hadn't lost somebody.

"So much loss," Hershel said sadly, "puts a healthy perspective on our priorities. Also makes me mighty glad that spring is here and we're getting the chance to start again."

Daryl stopped eating and took a good, long look at the older man. For someone who had lost so much, he sure had a lot of hope. Daryl wasn't sure if he was done deciding if Hershel Greene was too kindhearted for his own good or a damn fool.

"Well said, Daddy," Beth offered, respect evident in her tone. She leaned over enough to squeeze her father's hand, and Daryl averted his eyes, embarrassed by so much affection in one family.

Hershel cleared his throat and, what Daryl suspected might have been tears in his eyes.

"A fresh start is what we all need," Hershel continued, "And now that all that infernal plowing is done, we can take it."

Smiles broke all around the table, the earlier tension diffused into gentle conversation again. Daryl was just getting his words together to ask about sleeping in the barn, when Patricia leaned over to whisper something in Beth's ear and the two left for the kitchen in a barrage of female excitement.

They'd only been gone half a minute when Patricia appeared in the doorway announcing a surprise.

"The supply trains finally came through with some decent white flour, so..."

She stepped out of the doorway to make room for Beth who proudly deposited a steaming apple pie in the center of the table. There was a moment of shocked silence before Jimmy broke it by jumping to his feet with a whoop, grabbing Beth around the waist, and swinging her in a circle. Daryl braced himself as shocked laughter broke out around the room.

"Now don't get too excited," Beth warned, "I had to use molasses instead of proper sugar, and the apples are just preserves left over from the fall."

Everyone waved off her protests and declared it the finest apple pie they'd ever laid eyes on. Daryl didn't add to the noise, but had to admit that the pie smelled pretty terrific. He watched as Hershel cut the pie and passed it around, and almost groaned out loud when the first part of the flaky crust touched his tongue. He polished off the rest of his slice with ease, and was scraping the remaining filling off his plate when Hershel stopped eating and pointed his fork in Daryl's direction.

"Corporal Dixon, I've been thinking," he declared, "and I have a proposition for you."

"Sir?" Daryl asked warily, not like the sound of this at all.

"You were such a help today, and, as I'm sure you know, cotton is some of the toughest farming there is. I've heard neither hide nor hair from my usual farm hands and I could really use some help for the season."

Everyone was watching Hershel expectantly now, and Daryl felt all sort of words sticking in his throat. This was _not_ part of his plan.

"If you'd be willing to stay on as a farm hand until the end of November," Hershel continued, "I'd give you room and board plus $800 in gold if this season goes the way I expect it to."

All four people at the table inhaled sharply at the mention of that much money. No one they knew had seen money like that in years. Before Daryl could get his refusal out, however, Hershel kept going.

"Now, keep in mind that cotton is selling for almost $1.80 a pound right now. So, if prices stay there, we should be all set. There's a possibility that I might have to adjust your pay down if they fall some."

"But Daddy," Beth interjected, much to Daryl's surprise, "With England and New England bein' without it for so long, it can't drop that much."

"Precisely, sugar," Hershel finished, looking proud of her analysis, "I imagine there'll be some folks in Lowell, Massachusetts who'd sell their own mothers for a few decent pounds of Georgia cotton."

A collective laugh echoed around the table, and suddenly Daryl was dismayed to find all eyes turned on him.

"What do you say, son?"

Daryl tried not to meet anyone's eyes in particular as he shook his head slowly.

"That's a mighty kind offer, Mr. Green," he stammered, "But I'm hopin' that when word comes in of my brother's remains, I'll be in Talbot to see 'em. I got a cabin and a little land to get to, also."

Hershel sighed deeply, but forced a smile.

"I understand," he said, clapping his hands together, "In that case, let me show you to a room and we'll see you off in the mornin'"

They all stood, and Patricia and Jimmy said their goodbyes before leaving for their cottage on the other side of the farm. Hershel picked up a lantern off of the sideboard and motioned for Daryl to follow him.

"I think I'll just keep to barn," Daryl said gruffly, "I'm real dirty, and it don't seem right with Miss Greene here and all."

Hershel laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I appreciate your propriety," he said sincerely, "But there's really no need for it. At the very least, you should sleep on my army cot on the porch. You'll expire from heat stroke in the barn."

Daryl thought about it for a minute. Hershel was right - there'd be a nice breeze on the porch. Also, he could slip away at first light before Hershel got the chance to offer him work again. He seemed like the type who would. He nodded.

"Well alright then," Hershel acquiesced, "You're sure about the season?"

"Yessir," Daryl replied firmly, "I'll head out at first light."

 **Gee, I wonder what could ever make Daryl change his mind and decide to stay? Tell me what you think, and I'd love you to hear your predictions! Love always!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello again!**

 **Time to see our favorites interact a little. I mean, not much, because Daryl - but a little! Enjoy!**

 **Better Days - Chapter 4**

Beth tried her very hardest to focus on her reading, but she couldn't stop her brain from going a mile a minute. She'd have to ask the Lord to forgive her later, but Paul's letters to the church at Ephesus just weren't holding her attention with a real live soldier sleeping on the porch outside of her window. And to think that just this morning, she'd been bellyaching in a letter to Maggie about how nothing interesting had happened in weeks.

Though she knew better, she could have sworn that Corporal Daryl Dixon had been a ghost coming out of the woods this afternoon. The poor man was so thin and pale that he looked like he shouldn't even have been standing up. That combined with the threadbare quality of his gray uniform and the mysterious amber colored stains that she'd shuddered to identify as blood, had added to his specter-like qualities. She wasn't even a hundred percent sure he was real until he'd spoken in a voice as rough a river-bottom gravel to ask for work.

She'd known without really looking or asking that poor Patricia had been frightened. After that awful encounter she'd had with the band of deserters that had come to the cottage where she and Jimmy lived, one could hardly blame her. While Beth knew that Hershel had intervened before that situation got out of control, it had to have been terrifying knowing that she was powerless to stop those scoundrels from taking whatever they wanted. As far as Beth was concerned, one of the worst parts of this war was that it had turned men who used to pride themselves on their chivalry into scavenging animals. It brought out the worst in people.

This, however, did not seem to be the case with Daryl. He was certainly a little rough around the edges, but he'd been unfailingly polite since he showed up. She'd even heard him telling her Daddy that he didn't think it was proper to sleep in the house with her here and no matron present to act as a chaperone. Personally she considered that notion a little antiquated, but it had been awfully gentlemanly of him just the same.

It was a shame that he was planning on leaving in the morning. Not only could they use his help, it would have been nice to have someone new around for a little while. And though it really wasn't her job to notice such a thing, she was positive that if he cleaned up some, he'd be more than a little good looking.

With a sigh, she snapped her Bible shut, and stood from the small chair in her room to glance out the window. Though she knew that the cot where Daryl was sleeping was directly underneath her window, she still hoped to catch a glimpse of him.

Perhaps if he just got to know them a little better, he'd want to stay for the rest of the cotton season. Though a part of her knew that it was meddling, and that if her mother were still alive she'd be shocked, Beth knew exactly what she needed to do next. Mind made up, she snatched the candle off of the edge of her small table, and set off for the room across the hall. She knew for a fact that the chest of Shawn's clothes were in there, and sometimes a fresh set of clothes were all a person needed to see things in a whole new light.

* * *

After rolling a fresh shirt, trousers, and set of underthings, Beth carefully tucked them into one of the two leather boots from Shawn's room. Picking up the lantern with her free hand, she tiptoed down the stairs - making sure the skip the squeaky one that was two from the bottom. While she knew that her father wouldn't disapprove of what she was doing, he would probably prefer that she do it in the daylight. She wasn't sure, however, that she had that long.

Praying that he was still awake, Beth used her hip to bump the screen door open and try to keep her steps light on the porch. She was glad to see him sitting upright on the cot, whittling a block of wood in the dim light from a candle that Hershel must have left him. Her breath caught a little at the sight of him, dark stubble and high cheekbones thrown into sharp relief from the dim light of the candle. As quick as it came, though, she put thoughts like that out of her mind. She was here to convince him to stay for Daddy's sake, not to moon over him - even if he was the first proper man she'd seen in four years.

As she made her way to him, her foot encountered a squeaky porch board, and his gaze shot up to land squarely on her. She fought the feeling of getting caught somewhere she wasn't supposed to be.

"Evenin', Corporal," she said, irritated with how shy her voice sounded, "You settlin' in alright?"

Daryl merely nodded, never taking eyes of indistinguishable color off of her face.

"I - uh - couldn't help but notice that it's been a while since you've had a fresh set of clothes, so I figured I'd bring these to you," she continued, holding the bundle of clothes and boots out to him, "They were my brother, Shawn's, but I reckon he wouldn't mind you havin' 'em"

Daryl didn't say anything in reply and made no move to stand and take the clothes from her. Not quite sure how to proceed with him so uncommunicative, Beth stepped forward and placed the bundle on the very edge of the cot - as far away from where he sat as possible. After an awkwardly long pause, and the decision that she would _not_ scoot back in the house like a frightened child, Beth perched on the edge of the old white rocker that sat opposite his cot. She made of point of straightening her skirts over her knees and meeting his eyes again. He hadn't verbally protested her presence, but she'd have to be blind to miss the way his whole body tightened when she sat down.

"What've you got there?" she asked, finally deciding that questioning him directly might be the best way of getting him to open his mouth.

"Piece of oak," he said in a voice so low that she practically had to lean forward to hear him. Now that she looked at it more closely, she could tell that it was starting to take the shape of a small animal. There weren't enough details to tell what exactly, but the shape of four legs and a tail where obvious.

"You makin' something in particular?" she asked, hoping that if she got him talking about it, he'd open up a little more.

"A squirrel," he supplied reluctantly, and then to her surprise, "I made a few for my captain's kid over the past couple years."

"Well that sure is kind of you," she said softly, noting the tiny passes of his knife over the wood.

He shrugged, attention turned back to his hands.

"Needed somethin' to do at night in the camps," he responded, "He liked the first one I made - said he wanted one for his boy - so I just kept on."

"How old's his son?" she asked.

"Bout ten now, I reckon."

"Well, I'm sure he loved them," she said warmly, "Who's that one for?"

What she really wanted to know is how much of a family he was trying to get back to. If he had a wife or children that were counting on him, then it wasn't really fair of her to ask him to stay.

"Dunno," he responded, to her relief, "S'just habit now."

"What kinds of animals have you made?"

He paused a minute, and while she was a little concerned that she was annoying him, he hadn't asked her to go away yet.

"A bear, a wolf, a possum, a turtle, and a fox," he said, finally, offering no further explanation.

"And now a squirrel," she added, "I'd just love to see it when you're finished."

He gave her a hard look then, and she knew she'd strayed even farther into territory he was uncomfortable with.

"I'll be long gone by then," he replied, dropping his eyes.

"Yes," she agreed, rubbing nervous hands down the side of her skirts, "I know you said at supper that you had to be headin' along."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"I was wonderin', though," she spat out, he voice getting faster as her nervousness climbed, "Do you figure there's any way you could stay? I know you've got business to attend to, same as everybody else. But if you don't mind my bein' frank with you, I'm just not sure how we're goin' to get the cotton crop that Daddy wants on our own."

He stopped whittling altogether now, and laid the Bowie knife and the chunk of wood next to him.

"Miss Greene, I don't mean no rudeness," he started, never meeting her eyes, "But I just don't think it's a good idea."

She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but she could tell by the low determination in his voice that she'd lost this battle. It was odd really, how sad she felt about it. Twenty-four hours ago, she hadn't known Daryl Dixon from Adam, and now she felt a very real upset at the thought of never seeing him again.

Inwardly, she cursed herself for a fool. It served her right for getting all mopey and attached to the first of, what would probably be, many wayward Confederates on their way home. She stood and wiped imaginary dust on her apron before moving for the door again. Because she was her stubborn father's daughter, however, she couldn't resist one final attempt.

"Well, just in case you change you mind," she said, "I'd be happy to wash and patch that uniform for you. I don't know if you'll want to wear it again, but it must be important to you."

For the third time tonight, Beth felt heat rise in her cheeks as this enigma of a man stared instead of speaking.

"The other things are yours either way," she continued, "and there's a pond about a quarter of a mile west if you need a wash."

He nodded again and she figured that would be the last of their interactions.

"Goodnight, and safe travels, Corporal Dixon," she said with finality, "If you stay, for any amount of time, you just leave those dirty things on the cot and I'll take care of 'em for you."

Without waiting for a response that wouldn't come anyways, Beth opened the screen door and marched determinedly to bed.

* * *

She stretched and stifled a yawn as she opened the curtains to the first rays of sun peeking over the horizon the next morning. After splashing some water on her face from the pitcher, Beth headed downstairs to get breakfast started before her Daddy and Jimmy came in for breakfast. Hershel had a firm policy that the animals ate before he did, so he always headed straight to the barn when he rose.

Midway to the larder, it occurred to Beth that she should get the sheets of the cot where Daryl had slept last night. He was probably halfway to Talbot by now, and she knew that Daddy would like to see the porch cleaned up sooner rather than later.

Trying not to feel too bad about the fact that the most interesting part of her whole month was long gone, Beth exited the screen door and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight before her eyes.

There was the empty cot - sheets made neat enough to bounce a quarter off of - and right in the middle sat Daryl's folded gray uniform, just begging to be washed and mended.

 **Please let me know what you're thinking! Love you all lots!**


	5. Chapter 5

**This one's a little shorter than I thought it'd be. I had plans to make it half of a longer chapter, but the tones didn't fit and I liked the sass of this one standing alone, lol.**

 **Thanks for all the amazing responses so far, and I hope y'all continue to enjoy.**

Better Days - Chapter 5

Daryl reached up to tug at the collar of his scratchy linen shirt, wondering, not for the first time in the past forty-eight hours, what in the hell he was doing here. He'd pretty much been thinking it since he's made the decision to stay on the Greene farm yesterday morning. And now, sitting in the third pew of Bethesda Baptist Church, that thought was foremost in his mind. If he'd just followed his damn instincts and lit out first thing Saturday morning, he'd be home and minding his own business by now.

He still hadn't put his finger on whatever it was that had made him stay. He'd woken up to the slam of the screen porch and knew immediately that he's slept later than he'd meant to. He'd blamed that on the fact that it was the first time he'd felt safe enough to sleep soundly in almost ten days. He'd watched Hershel and then Jimmy, when he'd walked up just a few minutes later, go into the barn to start the morning chores. Though he'd told himself that he wouldn't take any more charity from these people, that pile of fresh clothes that Beth had brought him sure looked good. After another conversation with Hershel, he'd decided to take a bath in the pond, and then to stay for breakfast, and before he'd even known it he was sitting in this overheated church with half of Coweta County whispering about him.

Though he didn't have a name for it, he knew that the reason he'd stayed this long was the same reason he hadn't deserted the army as soon as he's lost track of Merle. Something about this situation made him feel like he should stick around and help. After all, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. He'd figure out some way to get word of his whereabouts to Talbot in case information on Merle came in, and the cabin sure as hell wasn't going anyplace. It made good sense to stick around for a few months if it made him $800 - especially, if it was in the gold that Hershel had promised him.

But just now, right this minute, he was beginning to wonder. It had to be ninety degrees in this church, the pastor had been talking for at least forty-five minutes, and he could practically hear the rumors and speculations flying around the church about him. I was abundantly clear that this church full of women, children, and older folks hadn't seen or heard from their fighting menfolk for too long of a while. Whatever it was they were expecting, Daryl was sure that his lean frame, scruffy face, and overlong hair wasn't it. Even though it was obvious from the greetings they received that the Greene family was well-like and respected around here, people had to be wondering what in the world Old Hershel was thinking.

Several sweat-soaked minutes later, Daryl was utterly relieved to stumble out into the sunshine with the rest of the congregation. It wasn't much cooler out here, but at least there was a breeze. Having only been to church a handful of times in his life, Daryl wasn't totally positive what to expect now that it was over. He remembered Beth and Patricia cutting up some cold food, and laying it in the coolest part of the larder the night before, so he assumed they were going home for lunch.

It seemed, however, that this was the time for socializing. Hershel was deep in conversation with the long-winded preacher, and while he'd lost track of Patricia and Jimmy, he could see Beth giggling with a gaggle of girls in the shade of a tall oak tree. Not one to insert himself into anyone's else's conversation, Daryl settled for making his way to the wagon they had come in and waiting for everyone else to finish up.

He chose a spot next to the tall, draft horse that had brought them their. The horse, whom he'd heard Hershel call Nelson that morning, was tall enough to provide a decent bit of shade, and much better company than most people as far as Daryl was concerned.

As he glanced around wagon for a small treat he could offer Nelson, he couldn't help but overhear snatches of conversation from the group of girls gathered under the tree.

"...just workin' to get the cotton in the ground, and he just came walking out of the woods?" a tall girl with large, red curls was asking Beth.

Beth went to answer, but another lady, clad all in claustrophobic looking green silk spoke over her.

"So do you think they'll all come home soon?" she asked eagerly, leaning in to hear the other's responses. Daryl figured she must have a husband or a sweetheart away if she was that concerned.

"I figure we have no way of knowin'" Beth responded finally, "Corporal Dixon is the first I've met so far, but I believe he walked the whole way. I suppose the others could be waitin' for transportation?"

"The last letter I got from Thomas said that he'd overheard talk of trains to take everyone home," yet another woman chimed in, "But that was before the surrender. He'd just heard some of the Colonels talkin'. I guess they knew the end was comin' 'fore the rest of 'em did."

"Well, and if the tracks got destroyed in Sherman's march, it's possible that the trains are takin' longer," the redhead added.

A part of Daryl considered going over to share what he knew, but his cautious side won out. He knew that as soon as he did, they'd bombard him with questions, and he wasn't doing anything to invite an inquisition of his entire life. If you gave these Southern belles an inch, they'd try to take a mile. He only returned his attention to the conversation when he heard them discussing him again.

"Is your daddy _real_ sure about takin' this man in, Beth" a pretty young woman with an air of superiority about her, asked with a delicate sniff, "I mean, he looks like some kind of fugitive."

There was a titters of agreement from the other girls, and Daryl could feel the blood rising up to stain his cheeks. Apparently something about him set off alarms in all well-bred young ladies. Merle had been right. There was no escaping it.

A long pause followed, and when he hazarded a glance in their direction, he could see Beth squaring herself off towards the pretty girl with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Now you listen here, Henrietta Jenkins," she said in that cold, but not raised-voice way of a true belle, "The man fought for the Cause and has probably seen all manner of things we can't even imagine, and..."

Henrietta interrupted her with a huff.

"Of course, of course," she said with a wave of her elegantly gloved hand, "But Bethy, you don't know anythin' about his people, or where he comes from, or what sort of a person-"

"I won't hear any more of this," Beth declared with a raised hand, "No, I don't know where he comes from, but I do know that he's been nothin' but a perfect gentleman since the moment he arrived, and I won't have you speculating about him when you're really just an insufferable busybody! You want to know his family connections, and if he has money, and a million other things that aren't worth a grain of salt now. He's a veteran, he's a kind man, and I couldn't give a whit whether your nosy family approves or otherwise."

With that, she gathered her skirt, broke past the line of girls and called to Hershel that she was ready to leave. Hershel motioned, with a finger, that he'd be along in a minute, but it appeared that Beth wasn't interested in waiting.

Daryl watched from his spot next to Nelson as she grabbed the side of the wagon and attempted to climb up onto it on her own. She would have made it to, if it hadn't been for the cumbersome length of her skirts. She must have stepped on it a little, because she ended up back down on the ground and glaring up at the offending wagon.

While Daryl had never helped a lady into anything in his entire life, he wasn't very well going to let her struggle in front of those snooty girls that she'd just told off on his behalf. Even though he wasn't sure he liked her defending him, the fact was, she had. He couldn't ignore that.

It occurred to him briefly that he didn't know exactly what to do, so he settled for efficiency. Leaving Nelson's side, he stepped up behind her and, wrapping large hands around her waist, lifted her clear off her feet and onto the wagon seat.

She let out a shocked little noise, that vibrated through her ribcage and all the way up his arms. He let go quickly.

Beth whipped around to look at him, but by then he's already vaulted himself into the back of the wagon and settled himself in the bed. She rotated completely in her seat to meet his eyes.

"For heaven's sake, Corporal," she laughed, "You should announce yourself before making a person fly."

"Didn't want you to fall," he mumbled by way of explanation.

She smiled then, and he looked away. She should probably be angry at his liberty-taking, not grinning like he was some knight.

"How very kind of you," she said sweetly.

"Them girls was right," he said picking awkwardly at his thumbnail, "You and your Pa don't know me."

She floundered for a minute, clearly unsettled by his lack of transition, before her eyes narrowed and her shoulders straightened.

"Actions speak louder than words," she said evenly, daring him to contradict her.

"What's that s'posed to mean?" he asked, finally looking back up at her.

"You're still here aren't you?" she asked, with a raise of her perfectly arched little eyebrow.

And damn it all to hell, Daryl didn't have a response for that.

 **Lots of love to everyone! Thanks for reading and please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

After cleaning up from supper, Beth retrieved Daryl's uniform, her latest sewing project, from her room and joined Patricia on the settee underneath the big window. Embroidery was work you needed light for, and the natural was so much better now that the days were finally getting longer.

As she and Patricia chatted back and forth about the things they were working on, Beth watched Hershel set up piles of dominoes on the table across the room. With Jimmy busy mucking stalls and putting down fresh hay for the night, she sat up a little straighter realizing that Hershel would invite Daryl in to play. That taciturn man had been with them nigh on two weeks, and _every single night_ after dinner, he went to sit on his cot on the porch. It was as if he was allergic to conversation.

Hershel stood up from the dominoes and made his way out to the porch. Beth tried, as surreptitiously as possible, to straighten her wide skirt and pat her hair. He may be ornery, but Daryl was still a man who wasn't her blood kin. She wanted to look presentable, at the very least.

At the squeak of the screen door, she looked up long enough to see Daryl following Hershel back in, his shoulders strung tight with tension.

"You play dominoes at all in the army, Daryl?" Hershel asked, taking a seat on one side of the board.

Daryl shrugged.

""Few times, sir."

Hershel paused and cut Daryl a look.

"What'd I tell you 'bout that 'Sir-ing' and 'Mr. Greene-ing," Hershel commented wryly.

"Sorry," Daryl mumbled, still standing next to the chair opposite Hershel, "I s'pose it's just what you get used to after a spell."

Beth couldn't stop her eyebrows from shooting up at that. Since their conversation in the church yard two Sundays ago, that had to be the most syllables she'd heard Daryl string together.

"I remember my time in the army," Hershel chuckled, laying his first tile out on the polished pine, "And I do believe I recall callin' everybody sir for a few months after I came back."

"You fight in the Mexican War?" Daryl inquired.

Beth nearly fell out of her seat. Daryl had asked someone something - and had genuinely sounded interested about it! Would wonders never cease?

"Sure did," Hershel replied, "Left late in '46 and didn't come back 'til fall of '47."

"I remember readin' bout that in the papers as a kid." Daryl offered. "I was 'bout thirteen when all of that started."

"Just shy of too young to go," Hershel replied.

"Mmhmmm."

Beth's brain whirled with some quick arithmetic and she calculated Daryl to be about thirty-two. It was a little older than she'd expected. Though there was a some gray through his beard, he had the build of a younger man. Not that she'd taken too much notice, of course.

"Well, you didn't miss too much," Hershel continued, "It's hotter than Hell itself in Mexico, and my particular company did more sitting around than anything else."

Daryl let out a strange guffawing noise that might actually have been a sound of amusement. He was so serious all the time that it was hard to tell."

"The only action I saw there, "Hershel continued, "was the Battle of Mexico City."

"And you still managed to get hurt," Patricia teased good-naturedly.

"A fact of which my Annette never tired of reminding me," Hershel said, a sad smile touching his lips.

Beth had to fight the rising emotion in her throat. It had been almost two years since her Mama had died of the consumption, but when she thought about the sweet and playful way her parents used to interact, it could bring all the sadness right back again.

"She was a pistol, my Anne," Hershel added, "She was hoppin' mad when I told her that I was goin' to Mexico. Said that I was a stubborn old fool, and that I'd get myself killed."

"Were you older than most?" Daryl asked, which Beth thought was mighty polite of him. Anyone looking at Hershel could tell that even twenty years ago he hadn't been a _very_ young man.

"I was forty-three," he confirmed, "And Maggie and Shawn, my oldest two, were just little things - Anne was a good bit younger than me, you understand."

Daryl nodded, and as Beth glanced at him, it seemed like he was rolling something big around in his brain.

"Although," Hershel continued, mischief filling his voice, "I s'pose she couldn't have been _too_ mad, because Beth came along not even a year after I got back."

Patricia chuckled and Daryl's mouth turned up a little at one corner.

"Daddy, honestly," Beth interjected, trying not to sound as embarrassed as she was, "You don't need to share every tiny detail."

Hershel laughed deep in his belly, and waved Beth's protests away.

"He knows I'm just teasin', sugar," he laughed, and then turned back to Daryl, "Don't you, son?"

"Yessir," Daryl said, straightening his mouth back again, "You can't be the first man who's ever been eager to get home to his woman."

"What about you, Daryl?" Patricia asked, laying her needlework down in her lap, "Is there a special lady waitin' for you in Talbot?"

The room got quiet, as color crept up Daryl's face. Beth had noticed that this happened whenever anyone asked him something that was personal. They'd found out things like the location of his family's home and some details about his company, but he clammed up whenever anyone mentioned his personal life.

"No ma'am," he mumbled, suddenly very interested in his dominos.

"Come now," Patricia teased, "How is it that a good lookin' man like you hasn't found himself a bride yet?"

With this, Daryl's face practically turned purple. Beth was just wracking her brain for a change in subject when Hershel spoke up and beat her to it.

"Leave the man alone, Patricia," he chided, "He's been a mite too busy the past four years to be lookin' for a wife."

Patricia rolled her eyes, but ceased her questioning. Even when it was delivered good-naturedly, Hershel's instructions were not something to be ignored. Knowing that her Daddy had already spoken up, Beth figured that it was her turn to steer the conversation back into comfortable territory. Her mama certainly would have done it.

Placing a final stitch in the gold chevron on the sleeve of Daryl's uniform, Beth stood from her chair and crossed the room to Hershel and Daryl. Nudging a stray domino out of the way, she spread the newly patched gray jacket over the table and into the light where Daryl could see it.

"Daryl, I've just 'bout got your uniform back in workin' order," she said brightly.

It still felt odd calling him by his first name, but he'd gruffly informed her that he wasn't a corporal anymore when she'd called him that a few days ago. While it probably wasn't proper to call him by his given name just yet, it felt odd calling him 'Mr. Dixon' and everyone else something else.

His dark blue eyes roamed over the jacket and flicked back up to her momentarily. It wasn't for long, but it was enough for Beth to feel the heat spilling into her cheeks.

"See?" she continued, determined not to be intimidated, "I was able to darn most of the holes and Mama had some gold thread stored in Shawn's trunk, so I picked out the old insignia and re-embroidered it so it looks neat again."

After a long beat, Daryl ran worn fingertips over the new gold stitching. Everyone waited for him to comment on Beth's skill or thank her, but the silence in the air got thicker and thicker as it grew longer.

"You didn't have to do that," he said finally, so softly that Beth wasn't even sure he'd said anything at all.

"I-I know it," she started, "I just thought that - well, I dunno - if it were me, I'd like the uniform to be somethin' I could show my grandkids someday."

She forced a chuckle, not at all sure how to proceed. It seemed like every friendly overture she made towards him, Daryl took differently than she meant. He didn't seem at all pleased.

"I don't have to do the other side if you don't want me to," she said in a voice that was getting smaller by the minute.

"No, no - that's not... Well, I" Daryl stammered, looking at a total loss for words, "I just, wasn't expectin' it is all. I'm mighty gr... Thank you, Miss Greene."

With that, Beth felt a little bit of calm come over her heart. Maybe he wasn't upset with her all the time. Perhaps Daryl Dixon was just the kind of man who took a little longer than the rest to be sociable. She smiled and folded the coat back under her arm. She could wait.

"It's just Beth, Daryl," she said, taking a step back towards her chair, "And I'd be happy to finish it if you'd like?"

He nodded, and turned deliberately back to his domino game.

"Did you go into the army as a corporal?" Patricia asked, bringing the conversation back to a place that everyone was comfortable with.

"I's promoted at Gettysburg," Daryl said quietly.

"How'd that happen?" Patricia pressed.

Daryl took a deep breath, and Beth put down the needle that she'd just picked back up to listen.

"My captain got shot," Daryl started, looking at no one in particular, "I got another fella to take him to safety and kept the line in order until we pulled back."

"That's no easy task," Hershel commented, clearly impressed, "You must have had the men's respect if they were willing to take your orders in the heat of battle."

"That's what the captain said when he promoted me," Daryl finished, rubbing a hand down his face and leaning back in his chair.

"He lived?" Patricia asked, surprised.

Daryl nodded again.

"Bullet only went through his shoulder," he confirmed, "They were able to patch him up."

"You mentioned earlier," Hershel asked delicately, "that you lost your brother at Gettysburg. Did it happen that same day?"

"Lost sight of him during the scuffle," Daryl said, the obvious pain written across his face.

Beth's heart broke for him. He'd been willing to step up his duty for the cause, and he'd lost his brother in the process. She couldn't imagine anything so horrible.

"Did they ever recover him?" Beth heard herself asking before she'd made the decision to.

Daryl shook his head.

"I reckon he's still MIA," he said with finality.

"What's his name?" Beth asked, realizing that Daryl had only ever called him 'my brother.'

"Merle," Daryl said quietly.

"I'll remember him in my prayers," she vowed.

For the second time that night, Daryl looked her full in the face, and Beth felt her breath catch in her chest. It took everything in her power not to march over to him and wrap him in hug. She knew that would be ridiculous and wildly inappropriate, but she'd never seen anyone look so sad.

As she settled her emotions, she vaguely heard Daryl ask Hershel about traveling to Talbot for a night. He said that he wanted to leave word of his whereabouts at the army depot in case word of Merle came up.

"Of course," Hershel agreed, "In fact, my sister lives there, and I know she's just been dying to see Beth. Why don't the two of you ride together, and the ladies can have a visit while you take care of your business?"

Beth felt her heart slam against her ribcage. There wasn't much either of them could do to protest with Hershel sounding so matter-of-fact about it.

"S-sure, Daddy," she said nervously, wondering just what she was going to do in a wagon with Daryl for three whole hours.

 **The plot thickens as the world turns! Love you guys! Tell me what you thought!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi everyone. Many apologies for how long it's been! I was out of the country for a good bit of the summer, and had the hardest time getting back into a routine once I was home. I'm really starting to fall in love with this story again though, and I'm hoping to be putting things our more regularly. I know this chapter was supposed to be their wagon ride, but I wanted to get some things about Daryl's war experiences out their before then. Sorry for the delay. Historical notes at the end if you're interested.**

With a heave and a grunt, Daryl brought the worn handle of the ax down and split the log that he'd propped up cleanly in two. By his reckoning, he had another thirty logs to split before he'd be done. He paused for a minute to stretch his back and noted that the soreness that twinged there occasionally was gathering more often than it used to. He supposed that sleeping on the ground for four years straight could do that to a body.

As he raised the ax again, he tried to get control of the gnawing in his gut that he hadn't been able to shake all day. It had been present since the moment Hershel had mentioned that he should take Beth to Talbot with him. The thought of being that close to Beth, who would certainly talk and expect him to respond, for that long filled his stomach with a nervous churning that should have been shameful for a man that had dealt with as much as he had in the past few years. It seemed that he was finding a a tentative footing with everyone on the farm except for the farmer's daughter. She kept showing him kindnesses that he felt he couldn't repay, which was a feeling he was totally unaccustomed to. He was used to being surly, and he felt that he couldn't be with her. Maybe he'd ask Jimmy to come along with them - if he did, then Jimmy and Beth could chatter to themselves and ignore him entirely.

He was considering the merits of this idea when he heard a decisive crash from the barn behind him and -

 _It was impossible to draw a full breath because of the thick smoke that hung in the air like a parasite. Daryl could feel the irritation of scratchy wool on damp skin that happened whenever it got hot like this, and - while he knew that if he made it through this he'd be annoyed - it was the least of his worries right now. His fingertips burned on hot metal as he knelt to reset the firing cap on his .58._

 _"Sounds like them bastards finally overused their guns," Merle grunted to his right._

 _They'd been firing over this particular hillside for what felt like hours, but up until now, the artillery rounds just kept coming, You could never be sure if they had finally over heated the gun barrels or if the Yanks were just reloading. Daryl couldn't imagine that the Union artillery guns had much steam left in them on a day as hot as hell itself. He'd grown up thinking that it was cold up North, but if this particular stretch of Pennsylvania farmland was any indicator, the stories had it wrong._

 _After a full two minutes of quiet, Daryl was finally starting to believe that they'd earned a reprieve. He heard hoof beats, and glanced up to see Captain Grimes riding the length of the line they'd been holding._

 _"General Pickett says the Yankee guns are done, fellas," the Captain hollered, "Load up and get in formation! We charge with the drums!"_

 _A half-hearted whoop ran through the line, and Merle - ever the hell-raiser - managed a tired Rebel Yell. If the big wigs thought the Yankee cannons were out of commission, this final infantry charge might put an end to this three days stretch of misery._

 _After double checking that both his rifle and side-arm were loaded, Daryl stood and shouldered up next to Merle. His body tensed, anticipating the charge._

 _"Ready to give 'em hell, baby brother?" Merle ribbed, elbowing him._

 _"Born ready," Daryl affirmed, fixing his eyes ahead._

 _At the roll of the drum, the company moved forward like a well-greased wheel and made their way up the hill. Daryl moved his rifle from it's marching position and leveled it at the hazy line of offending navy blue in the distance._

 _He was just drawing in a breath to aim when the ground underneath his feet shook so violently with artillery fire that it knocked him to the dirt._

Daryl struggled to even his ragged breathing as he slowly realized that he was crouching behind the chopping block like a damn fool. As the haze in his mind faded, he realized that the crash he'd heard was coming from the inside of the barn and not from the other side of a battlefield. His face burned with shame as he realized that something as simple as a noise could unhinge him that easily. He was grateful that no one was around to see him.

Hershel had driven Patricia and Jimmy into town a few hours ago and the three had yet to return. A letter had come that morning saying that Otis's personal affects had been recovered and shipped to the Army depot in Senoia. Hershel, to his credit, had given Daryl some odd jobs for the day, instructed Beth to stick to house chores, and loaded Patricia and Jimmy into the wagon directly. Daryl hadn't seen Beth since she'd brought him a bacon sandwich a few hours ago, and he was grateful for it.

With a shaky breath, he straightened up and reached for the ax that he'd let fall to the ground. This was only the second time that he'd had a flashback that vivid. The things that he saw and did during the War were never too far from his mind, but only once before had he been gripped by a fear so so strong that it had seemed to rob him of his consciousness. He couldn't explain it, and he didn't like it a damn bit.

He tried very hard not to hear his father's voice in his head as he placed another log on the block. William Dixon would have berated him for a coward and probably punched him in the mouth for good measure if he had witnessed his youngest son's tiny break with reality. Daryl shook his head a little to clear it, and reminded himself for the umpteenth time that his father was dead and gone - even if he could sometimes feel his shame from the grave.

Two swings later he heard a dull thump - not nearly as loud as the first one - come from the same spot in the barn. He knew it couldn't be Hershel and the others returning. He would have seen them coming up the lane. At this time of day Beth should have been in the house getting supper ready. That left the possibility of either a loose horse, a wild animal, or someone who had no business being there. With a sigh more of annoyance than apprehension, Daryl stuck the ax in the wood of the chopping block and started around the side of the barn to the door.

He placed a hand over the hunting knife at his hip before pushing the side door of the barn open, and noted nothing but the late-afternoon sun filtering through the dusty air. He made his way along the length of the room, checking that all the horses' stall doors were latched properly. He had almost reached the end when he heard the same thump and a soft voice that he couldn't quite make out.

In the final stall, Daryl was little shocked to find a sweat-soaked, messy-haired Beth kneeling over a very pregnant doe goat who was heaving in the midst of a kidding.

"Come now, Mama," Beth practically whispered, running the her hand the length of the doe's swollen stomach, "I know that little one's facin' the wrong way, but you shouldn't have much longer now.

She clearly hadn't noticed his presence yet, and Daryl took the opportunity to process what he saw. Beth Greene was certainly no plantation belle, but judging by the size of this farm and house, she certainly hadn't grown up with any working skills. In fact, he'd be willing to put money on the guess that her mama had probably insisted on her learning to speak French and play the piano. Young ladies did not tie up their skirts, kneel in the hay, and hazard the potential muck and filth that came with livestock births.

And yet, here she was. He could tell by the tiredness around her eyes, and the fact that her light blue dress was dark with perspiration, that she'd been here awhile. That, coupled with her calm and collected words, had him believing that this was far from her first experience with this kind of thing. He didn't know what to make of this girl.

Without warning, she glanced up and caught him staring. He coughed a little to cover his embarrassment when she offered him a tired smile.

"Daryl," she said simply, "I thought that was you splitting logs I heard a moment ago."

"Heard a noise in here," he said by way of explanation, not wanting her to think that he'd snuck in here to watch her.

"Dina flailed a little, and kicked my water pail over," Beth explained, cutting her eyes to the bucket laying on it's side in the hay, " The kid's nearly here, and she's gettin' a mite restless."

Without comment, Daryl retrieved the water bucket and walked the few yards to the other side of the barn to refill it for her. She must be about to expire with heat. Noticing the dipper next to the pump, he grabbed it too, and returned to her stall. Her eyes filed with relief when she saw him return with the water, and she left the goat's side long enough to get a drink.

"Thank you so much," she sighed, "Dina was having such a hard time, I didn't wanna leave her."

"How d'you know the kid's backward?" he asked, purposefully not acknowledging her gratitude.

"I suspected an hour or two ago," she replied, "I felt for it, and I'm pretty sure what I encountered was rump and not head."

Daryl couldn't stop his eyebrows rising at that. He'd known teenage boys who blanched at the idea of checking an animal's birth canal. Beth was made of sterner stuff than she looked. He unlatched the stall and moved in to kneel beside her. Tough though she might be, he doubt she had the arm strength to do the pulling that might be required if the kid's hooves got stuck.

"What'd you plan on doin' if he got stuck?" he inquired.

She chuckled a little sheepishly; apparently she'd thought of that too.

"Hollerin' til you came to help," she said with a smile that seemed to light up the whole interior of the dusty barn.

Daryl snorted a little, in spite of himself. At lease she was honest.

"Have you seen a kidding before?" she asked, rubbing the distressed animal's head.

"I helped with calving on a farm near my cabin as a youngin'" he answered, "Can't be too different."

Beth nodded, and leaned down to check their progress.

"I can see the sac," she said, suddenly all business, "but it's not comin' as easy as it should. If I hold her shoulders, can you work it out?"

Daryl took a peek as well and could see that her assessment was spot on. He nodded and rolled his sleeves up, lamenting the fact that he'd only washed this shirt a week ago and it was about to get filthy.

After a few tense minutes of tugging, with Beth's soothing voice keeping the doe calm, the birthing sac spilled onto the ground and the kid kicked through it almost immediately. With a little assistance from Beth, it broke free and was up on wobbly little legs in a matter of minutes.

Beth laughed out loud, which Daryl was surprised to realize didn't sound nearly a jarring as it had when he'd first arrived. They both watched in awe as the tiny brown goat tested his new legs and eventually settled down next to his mother to nurse.

With a touch of familiarity that made him stiffen, Beth bumped his shoulder with hers and turned a beaming grin on him.

"I'm glad you came in when you did," she said, rising to her feet and wiping her messy hands on her apron.

"Weren't nothin'" he grunted, attempting to wipe some of the mess from his boots, "I's surprised is all."

"About what?"

"I ain't never seen a lady birth an animal before."

At that comment Beth shrugged a shoulder and bent to pick up the water bucket.

"My mama would probably have a fit if she saw me now," she remarked, a bit of sadness creeping into her face, "But times change. The past couple of years have been different and I've had to learn to adjust same as everybody else."

"Mmmm," was all Daryl could manage. He had the strangest impulse to try and comfort her and he knew he had to squash it quick. He had no idea how, and it wasn't his place.

"Even ladies have to get dirty sometimes," she teased.

"Mmmm."

Yet another comment he didn't dare reply to.

"What should we name him?" Beth asked after a beat.

"Don't much care," Daryl responded with a shrug, "You pick."

Beth knelt to stroke the little kid's soft ears and when she stood again their was a telltale impishness about her smile.

"I think I'll call him Jolly," she declared with a hint of sarcasm, "in honor of the man who brought him into the world."

Lord help him on this wagon ride in the morning.

 **I hope you're liking them getting just a little more comfortable with each other. All the details from the Gettysburg scene, right down to the temperature were pretty accurate. Daryl's company participated in Pickett's Charge which is arguable one of the most important turning points of the Civil War. It's what really got the Confederates defeated at Gettysburg. There will be more of those flashbacks as we go along and you can check out if you're interested in more specific info!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey y'all! I'm sorry (as always) for the long update time. Life just gets away from you sometimes! I promise I have no intention of abandoning this story - I love it way too much for that! A few historical notes at the end if you're interested!**

 **Chapter 8**

With a sigh of deep exasperation, Beth struggled to slide the last of a handful of pins into her hair. With all of her hairnets broken, the slippery wooden pins that had once been her mother's would have to hold through this entire wagon ride, and she wasn't sure they were going to make it. She added a new hairnet to the mental list of things to collect from the general store in Talbotton. While she knew that the tiny town that made up the seat and court house of Talbot County wasn't that far away, she had to admit that she wasn't sure what to expect from this wagon ride.

Before the war and while her Mama was alive, there was no way on God's green earth that she would have been permitted to ride all that way with a man as single as Daryl. Even if he was technically the hired help and not a gentleman acquaintance, her mama wouldn't have approved. She agreed with her father that times and circumstances had changed, but she still couldn't shake the nerves that came from the fact that she'd never been alone with any man that wasn't Daddy or Sean for that long. She knew she was being silly. The open road in broad daylight certainly wasn't _alone_ , but it seemed strange just the same.

Her hair finally wrangled, she closed the small carpet bag with her change of underthings in it and moved to check her appearance in the looking glass once more. Because she had made it so quickly, it wasn't the neatest job in the world, but she thought her new travelling dress looked almost pretty. She had been both pleased and surprised when Daddy had suggested that she remake one of her mother's dresses to fit her for this trip. It had been strange - taking apart Mama's dress, but she liked the feeling of wearing something that had once belonged to her. It made her feel older - more grounded - and the cornflower blue had always been one of her favorites.

She smoothed the bustle once more and pinched her cheeks to give them a little extra color. It wasn't as if both Daryl and Aunt Clara hadn't seen her before, but something she couldn't pinpoint made her want to look nice today.

"Beth," Hershel hollered up the stairs, "You better get on down here - Daryl's just gone to pull the wagon around!"

Realizing that she was out of time to fix anything else, she shouldered her bag and headed for the stairs. When she reached the bottom, a bright smile broke out on Hershel's face.

"You look just as pretty in that color as your Mama always did,' he said warmly - a touch of emotion coloring his voice.

"I like wearing what was hers," she admitted, swirling the skirt to the side for effect.

"You do it well, Sugar," he proclaimed, "I know Aunt Clara's going to be just delighted to see you. It's been too long."

Her father's sister, Clara Monroe, had lived in Talbotton for as long as Beth could remember. She and her husband had owned the general store there until he died. Now she ran it herself - quite successfully too. Beth loved visiting her aunt. Clara was a bright, outspoken woman who, having no children of her own, had always doted on Beth and her siblings. She'd come to stay for a whole six months when Mama had died, and Beth tried to visit her as often as there was a reason to.

"I wish we could stay longer than just the night," Beth commented. Because she was riding with Daryl, they would have to turn around and come back the next day. Being that they were at the very end of the planting season, Daryl couldn't be away for too long.

"I know you do," Hershel said, "but you know we'll go for a spell after the harvest like always."

Beth nodded - the yearly visit to Aunt Clara's was something she looked forward to every year. Everyone got to rest and relax, and there were always plenty of dances in town and other things to look forward to. It would probably be even better this year with the war done. The past few years were understandably subdued.

"Do y'all have enough to eat on the way?" Hershel inquired, "It'll take you upwards of a few hours to get there."

"Yessir," Beth replied, "I packed the hamper before bed last night."

"The two of you be very careful," Hershel warned, growing serious, "There's no tellin' what kind of people might be on the road."

"We will, Daddy," Beth reassured him, "And even if something did happen, Daryl seems very capable."

"Oh, I'm sure of that," Hershel agreed, "You wouldn't be going with him if I wasn't."

She couldn't help but smile at that. Hershel was someone who made quick and accurate judgments of peoples' character. Beth knew she had nothing to worry about.

She kissed him goodbye and was surprised to see Jimmy racing towards the porch as she walked outside. He ran up the stairs and stopped breathlessly in front of her.

"Mornin' Jimmy," she laughed, "Where are you in such a hurry to get?"

Jimmy appeared uninterested in small talk.

"Beth," he huffed and puffed, "Do you have to get to your aunt's today?"

Beth stopped in her tracks, confused.

"Why?" she asked, "Is there something you need that can't wait?"

"Not exactly," Jimmy said, toeing the edge of the porch with his boot nervously, "I just don't know if goin' with _him_ is such a good idea."

"Why ever not?" she asked, now thoroughly bewildered. She could understand why it was Daddy's business who she traveled with, but it was certainly none of Jimmy's.

"Look, I don't have a real good reason," he continued, starting to stumble over his words, "I just - it seems to me like we just don't know... Aw shucks, Beth, I can't put my finger on it, I just don't like it."

Suddenly the redness of his face and his inability to get his words out made sense to Beth. It was no secret to anyone, least of all her, that Jimmy was a little sweet on her. It wasn't so much that he didn't want her to go with Daryl, as he wanted to be the one to take her.

"I'll be fine, Jimmy" she assured him with a pat on the shoulder. She considered saying more, but decided against it. She hadn't made up her mind what to do about Jimmy, and she didn't want to encourage him unfairly. "And I'll be back tomorrow."

Jimmy's face fell.

"Alright, y'all just be real safe, and-" he started, but was cut off.

The two of them spun around as Daryl drove the wagon up to the porch suddenly.

"You ready?" he asked gruffly and with no introduction.

"Yes, I've got lunch ready for us and everything I need for the night!" she said brightly.

"Let's get going then," he said with an impatient jerk of his head.

Beth was a little surprised at his tone. While he wasn't usually warm, that was a little short even for Daryl. She deposited the picnic hamper and her bag in the bed of the wagon, and gathered her skirt in a hand to climb up next to Daryl.

"You need help?" he asked. He started to climb down, but was cut short by Jimmy, who almost tripped over his feet to hand her up.

"No need," he said tersely, and then to Beth, "You be careful, y'hear?"

"Don't worry, Jimmy," she replied with an edge of exasperation - what in the world, was the boy so worried about?

Daryl clicked his tongue and urged the horses down the lane and away from the farm.

* * *

Beth tried her hardest not to drum her fingernails on the seat next to her. She'd tried twice now to get Daryl talking and he was having none of it. It was a beautiful day out, and Beth had said so - Daryl grunted. She had tried again with mentioning how nice it was to be away from the farm for a bit, and he had grunted _again._ It was like no one had ever taught him how to make polite conversation. Beth knew that chatter wasn't strictly necessary for traveling, but it sure did make the time pass more pleasantly. She couldn't imagine sitting here for the next four hours and ignoring the person sitting mere inches from her.

"Has the Dixon family always been in Talbot County?" she inquired, wondering if a direct questions was a better idea.

"Dunno," Daryl responded, never once taking his eyes from the road.

"Daddy's family is originally from Ireland, you know," she offered, "he was the first Greene born here."

"Mmmm."

"And no one's real sure about Mama's family," she supplied with an artificial chuckle, "They'd been here so long that no one could remember what country they'd come from originally."

Daryl didn't say anything to that.

"So, you're not sure what place in Europe your family comes from?" she tried.

"No." he grumbled - or at least Beth thought he'd said no. It could have been anything for all the attention he was paying.

"Well, I'm sure that most people don't" she added, "We only know because Daddy remembers his parents talking about it."

"Mmm-hmmm."

Beth tried to hide a frustrated sigh. He would talk to Daddy, or to Jimmy, or even occasionally to Patricia, but never to her.

"How far is your cabin from Talbotton?" she inquired in a last-ditch effort to draw him out.

He shrugged - _actually shrugged_ \- didn't even bother to acknowledge her question with words, and Beth knew that she'd finally had enough. She'd tiptoed politely around this man for weeks now, and she'd had it. She thought they might have turned a corner after Jolly was born yesterday, but apparently not. Was she really so _very_ difficult to talk to?

She knew that it wasn't ladylike to confront him - she should have just sat there quietly until they reached Aunt Clara's, but she just couldn't.

"Daryl," she started, hoping he would look at her. He didn't - just kept staring ahead.

"Daryl!" she intoned with a little more force. When there was still no change in his attitude, she felt the Irish blood rise from the depths of her being and knew that she was about to cause her mama to roll in the grave.

With no warning or fanfare, she snatched the reins from Daryl's relaxed grip, steered the team to the side of the rode, and hauled them to a stop with a little more force than was necessary. He finally turned to look at her, for the thousandth time, she wished that his facial expression gave more away. He was so stoic all the time - it just made her angrier.

"Look, Daryl," she huffed, trying and failing to keep the snippiness out of her voice, "I don't know why in the world you find it so impossibly painful to speak to me, but if I've done something to upset or offend you, I wish you'd just tell me."

She wasn't sure if he would have responded here or not, because she just kept right on going.

"Or if you won't tell me, since that seems to be an extremely difficult task for you, I'd be much obliged if you'd let me fetch the book from my bag so that I don't have to sit here woolgathering for the next four hours."

She almost wished he'd yell back; at least then she'd get _something_ out of him.

"I ain't upset," he said finally, turning his gaze back down to his hands.

"Then why in the sam hill won't you do any more than grunt at me?" she asked.

She watched, exasperated, as he shifted his weight and seemed to consider his words.

"My family wasn't nothin' like yours," he said, finally and quietly, "Ain't nothin' worth talkin' about."

She blinked, confusion setting in - she'd never met a Southerner who wasn't willing to talk about his family. Before she could think of response to that, he was looking at her again, those infuriating blue eyes managing to hide everything he was feeling.

"Ask me 'bout something else,"

"Pardon me?"

"I don't mind talkin'," he admitted warily, "just ask me 'bout somethin' else."

For the first time in a long time, Beth was the one who couldn't find her words. She wasn't sure she even knew how to make conversation that didn't revolve around her people or someone else's. After a brief moment of fluster, she figured it couldn't' hurt to take a stab in another direction.

"Well, I'd love to know more about your time in the Army," she admitted, noting that he'd already taken back the reins and maneuvered them back to the road, "but Daddy said that some people didn't like talkin' about it."

"I'd rather talk about that than my family," he said simply.

"Well alright, then," Beth said decisively, a grin creeping onto her face. So he didn't hate her.

"What do you wanna know?"

"Oh, I dunno," Beth said, gaining some of her enthusiasm back, "Everything! How 'bout when did you join and what happened after?"

Beth turned to watch as Daryl, in his low, steady drawl, began to recount how his brother decided to sign up and he figured that he better go along to watch out for him. It was amazing to her how relaxed he seemed. He didn't laugh or joke as he talked; and he didn't offer in-depth details, but for the first time she could remember meeting him, he wasn't strung through with tension around her. It transformed him.

While she knew, objectively, that Daryl wasn't difficult on the eyes, but she'd never had enough of a proper interaction with him to form anything other than a passing opinion. As he talked about training drills, and terrible food, and endless marching, she had an opportunity to study him - taller than her, wide-shouldered and thin-hipped, sharp jawline, dark blue eyes, and hair that always seemed just-this-side-of too long - Corporal Daryl Dixon was a handsome man. It wasn't in a clean-cut gentlemanly way that most of her friends sighed and swooned over, but there was certainly something about him. It was a quiet something, but it was a something she couldn't help but notice.

Lost in these musings, she didn't realize that he'd stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly.

"S-sorry, that sun is so warm that I lost my concentration for a moment," she lied sheepishly.

Hopefully he hadn't noticed her staring.

"What did you ask?" she recovered.

"Wanted to know how old you were at the start of all of it," he repeated, appearing not to have noticed her slip.

"I was few months shy of sixteen when the fighting broke out," she responded, and then, "I'll be twenty in August."

"Mmmmm," he commented, "Old enough to understand it like you were grown then."

"Yes," Beth nodded her agreement, "I suppose some of the families kept the worst of it from their daughters, but Daddy's never been that type."

"What type is that?" Daryl questioned.

"Oh, you know," she laughed, "the kind of daddy that assumes that my femaleness should keep me from being useful."

Daryl snorted a little at this, and Beth was delighted to watch the corner of his mouth lift a little. She'd bet most anything that if that man full-on smiled it would gut-wrenching.

"Did you have any good times," she asked, not wanting to break this streak of nice conversation, "or was it all just awful?"

"There were a few," he admitted, "Watching a Yankee lady take a fryin' pan to Merle's head was certainly entertaining."

Beth laughed outright.

"What in the world did he do to incite that level of violence?" she wondered.

"He was tryin' to steal some eggs from her hen house," he said, fighting a grin, "You shoulda seen the look on his face when she clocked him."

"Was he hurt?" Beth inquired.

"Only his pride," Daryl intoned, "She wasn't any bigger than a minute."

"Oh heavens," Beth said with a shake of her head.

"Almost laughed myself cross-eyed that day," he admitted.

Beth couldn't budge the smile from her face as she reached her arms up in a stretch. It was so nice to ride in the sunshine and get to know Daryl a little better. He wasn't nearly so intimidating once she figured out how to talk to him. She hoped they'd be friendlier from now on - she was starting to genuinely like him.

"Daryl?" she asked, eyeing a likely spot for a break up ahead on the road.

"Ma'am?" he responded, and she couldn't stop a smile from spreading at the fact that he acknowledged her with something more than a vague noise.

"Would you mind pullin' off under that oak, yonder?" she asked, "I'd like to get a sip of water and stretch my legs for a minute."

He nodded and pulled the wagon to a stop. Beth was trying to decide the best way to hop down from the wagon, when he touched her elbow lightly.

"Wait a minute, and I'll come help ya," he said.

"Much obliged," she smiled back.

He jumped to the ground and moved to her side of the wagon. Beth reached for his hand, and couldn't help but notice the roughness of his palms on hers. The warmth of his touch went straight to her stomach in a sensation that she was positive she'd never experienced before. What on earth was getting into her?

She expected him to step aside so she could move past him, but he didn't.

"I ain't ever seen you wear that before," he said abruptly.

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about her dress.

"I just finished it last night," she beamed, surprised and pleased that he'd noticed, "it's new."

"It's the exact same color as your eyes."

 **Oh, he notices, Beth. He definitely notices...**

 **So, a few people were asking if it was proper for Beth and Daryl to be traveling alone together, and the answer is that it's complicated. In a perfect 1865 world, probably not, but those rules loosened up a lot in the post-War South. If Hershel was a progressive sort of guy, which I imagine him to be, he wouldn't have had a problem with it unless there was some chance of them being out after dark. Also, they'll spend the night at Aunt Clara's - and she's a perfectly respectable chaperone.**

 **Also, in case anyone reading isn't from the American South, I promise you that the ma'ams and sirs, even among family and close friends is perfectly normal. We still do that now, lol.**

 **Thanks everyone for reading and I'd love to hear from you in a review!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi guys! I'm so excited about this that I'm just cranking out the chapters! No, but for real, it's starting to get obvious between these two, and I just love it. Keep in mind, that doesn't mean they'll admit it anytime soon, but they're both thinking about it. Thank you so much for each and every review! They just make me so happy!**

 **Here we get to see a few new characters and some good old-fashioned Daryl awkwardness. *Sigh***

 **Hope you enjoy!**

"Corporal, it appears, according to my records, that Private Merle Dixon is still listed as 'missing in action'" the mustachioed man at the Army depot said with an overly-exaggerated pitying shake of his head.

Daryl was irritated; it had taken him almost a damn hour to get anyone to even speak to him, and now they didn't even have anything new to tell him.

"Seems a little strange seein' as how the action's over," he drawled, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Be that as it may," the pompous little man said, raising his nose an inch, "there are many soldiers whose whereabouts are still unaccounted for. The Yanks have not yet freed all the prisoners, so it's entirely possible that he could be waiting for release if he were captured."

"What if he's just dead?" Daryl asked bluntly.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Corporal Dixon, but there's a chance he might never be recovered," he continued, "with the communication lines the way they are, it'd be a miracle to track down one individual private."

"Bet it' make a difference if he was an officer," Daryl muttered under his breath.

"I'm very sorry, sir. Is there an address that you'd like to leave? We'll send word if any new information comes through."

Even though Daryl had all but given up, he figured it couldn't hurt to leave the location of the Greene farm with the office. At least then if anyone found any of Merle's possessions, they'd come back to him. Merle could be a right ornery cuss sometimes, but that didn't change the fact that he was blood. Daryl wanted to be respectful of anything they might find of his.

He slid the slip of paper across the counter to the desk attendant, not at all sure that he had spelled everything right, and left before he could give into the temptation to wipe that fella's self-importance right off his face.

That's how it had always been in Talbotton for him. People knew him - they knew his family, and his daddy's reputation, and that none of them were received in polite company anywhere in the county. They knew, and even thought they were just mannerly enough not to refuse him service, they made him wait, and talked to him like he was a misguided child.

This unique feature of life as a Dixon in Talbot County was one of things that made him so wary of walking into Clara Monroe's house yesterday evening. It had surprised him to discover that the woman whose sharp eyes had followed him around her store for the first twenty years of his life was Hershel Greene's sister.

When they were kids, Merle had caused so many problems at Monroe's General Store that he wasn't welcome there anymore. It had fallen on Daryl to go in whenever their daddy had money that hadn't gone to whiskey and needed him to fetch something. Though he didn't steal from the candy bins like Merle had, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had all but followed him around the store when he was a kid.

He recalled yesterday's introductions - or perhaps it was reintroductions.

* * *

 _Beth had leapt down from the wagon without his help and all but run up the porch and into her aunt's arms. A cautionary glance told Daryl that Mrs. Clara Monroe hadn't aged a day but for the few additional gray streaks in her dark blonde hair._

 _He climbed down from the wagon and tried to hold his head up as he mounted the porch._

" _Aunt Clara, may I present Corporal Daryl Dix-" Beth has started, but Clara cut her off._

" _No need, darlin', she said, betraying no emotion, "Mr. Dixon and I are already acquainted."_

 _Beth looked confused for a brief moment, but then realization dawned on her face._

" _Of course you would be," she laughed good-naturedly, "I'd forgotten that Daryl grew up around here."_

" _Bethy," Clara said, bestowing a bright smile on her niece, "Why don't you run down to the store for a moment? Amy Whitmore just went in, and I know she'd love to see you."_

 _Beth's face lit in recognition and she moved towards the wagon._

" _Let me just get my bag in, and I'll do that," she declared._

" _No need," Daryl heard himself offer, "Go see your friend. I'll bring it in."_

 _He wasn't sure what had made him offer - it certainly wasn't something that came naturally to him - but he was rewarded with a beaming smile from Beth._

" _How kind of you, Daryl, thank you!" she said, laying a gentle hand on his arm as she brushed past him and made her way to the end of the street where the store stood._

 _He and Clara both watched Beth go, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Clara turned to him._

" _You sure have grown up, Daryl Dixon," she said wryly, her gaze appraising him up and down._

" _Yes, ma'am," he replied to the porch floorboards._

" _You and that brother of yours both go to fight for the Cause?" she asked._

" _Yes ma'am," he confirmed, "joined the Talbot Guard in '61"_

" _And did I hear my niece say that you were a corporal?"_

" _Promoted at Gettysburg," he said, finally looking up to meet her eyes._

 _He did this warily, positive that he would see the same old judgement that he was so accustomed to, and was surprised to find it missing. She wasn't smiling, but she wasn't scowling either._

" _Well that's somethin' to be proud of," she replied with an approving nod of her head._

" _Thank you, ma'am," he managed to say, trying not to fall over in shock._

 _For the first time since he'd set foot on her porch, Clara cracked a small smile._

" _I must admit to being a mite surprised when I got the letter from my brother tellin' me all about his new farmhand," she explained, "but if Hershel trusts you, and your superiors in the Army saw fit to promote you, you're welcome in this house any time you care to call."_

 _Daryl had enough pride to hide his sigh of relief, but, in that moment, you could have knocked him plumb over with a feather. He hadn't said a word to anyone on the farm, but as soon as he'd managed to connect the fact that Beth's Aunt Clara and Clara Monroe of Monroe General Store were one in the same, he'd been dreading this visit even more. He was sure that she'd turn him out, inform Hershel of all his family's misdeeds, and cost him his job._

 _He wasn't quite ready to consider the fact that he was worried over a job he'd sworn not to want four weeks previously._

 _It seemed, however, that Clara Monroe had more tolerance in her than he had been prepared for._

* * *

Daryl pondered how grateful he was for that interaction as he walked down to the street and towards the general store. It would have been easy for Clara to condemn him, but she hadn't.

He glanced at the clock on the outside of the church to his left and saw that it was just getting to be past noon. He needed to go hurry Beth along at the store if they were going to make it back to the farm before dark. Being that it was nearly June, the days were stretching out, but he didn't want to risk anything. He knew that Beth had a list of things that she wanted to collect from the store, but she was going to need to pick up the pace.

He entered the store and saw Beth browsing through the shelves, a woven basket slung over her arm. He'd noted coming up the steps that the wagon parked out front already had more things than they'd come with, so he figured she must be close to finished.

"You 'bout done," he asked, approaching her.

She turned her full attention on him, and he was caught of guard - as usual - by how happy she looked to see him. Her smile turned to concern in an instant though, as she crossed the aisle to him.

"Did you learn anything new about Merle at the depot?" she asked.

"Nah," he shook his head, trying to hide his disappointment, "he's still labeled as 'missing in action'"

"Oh Daryl, I'm sorry," she said with genuine concern.

He shrugged.

"Just gotta keep waitin', I reckon," he dismissed.

"And I'll keep prayin'," she assured him.

He nodded, knowing he'd get all flustered if he tried to thank her - the words still tasted too funny in his mouth.

"And to answer your question," she said brightly, "Yes, I'm just about done."

She reached down and combed through her basket, seeming to assess if she'd gotten everything.

"I was just trying to pick a new vest for Daddy," she continued, reaching for his arm, "come help me."

Daryl had to fight every instinct in his body not to freeze and jerk away from her. Just because they'd gotten a little more conversational lately, didn't mean they were friendly. He was considering the least rude of way of extracting himself from this errand, when she angled his elbow up and tucked her little hand into the crook of his arm like he was the gentleman from the next farm over. And just like that, he couldn't do it.

Beth Greene was not the kind of woman that one disappointed if one could help it. He had thought himself immune to her sweet smiles and pretty little manners, but suddenly, in the middle of the Monroe General store, Daryl realized that he'd no sooner kick a dog than he would pull away from this girl who had never done anything but try to make him feel welcome. If she wanted to treat him like someone who was good enough to escort her around in public, then damn his stupid self to hell and back, apparently he was going to let her.

"-and it's just that they've got so many different patterns these days," she was saying, and he realized he'd missed the first part of her question, "I never know which one he might like. What do you think?"

"I'm sure he'll like whatever you get him," he tried not to mumble.

Beth rolled her eyes good-naturedly and swatted his arm with the hand that wasn't tucked up into his elbow like it was supposed to be there.

"That's what he always says," she laughed, "but I just want to make sure it's something he'll want.

He could tell that Beth was gearing up for another question when the bell over the shop door tinkled, and another two patrons walked in. Daryl had every intention of paying them no mind when -

"Well, I never," a deep voice boomed, "Corporal Dixon as I live and breath."

He turned and saw Captain Rick Grimes, dressed for a casual morning walk, with a pretty dark-haired lady on his arm.

Daryl had to fight the urge to salute.

"Afternoon, Captain," he managed, reaching for the hand that Rick had already extended.

"Did you say 'Dixon', Rick?" the lady with him questioned, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.

Daryl braced himself for whatever she was about to say about him.

"Yes, darlin'" Rick said, patting his hand over her, "Corporal Dixon was an exceptional soldier. In fact, he is responsible twice over for my standing here with you today. Saved my hide at Petersburg and Gettysburg."

The woman's features softened.

"And who might this be?" Rick asked, indicating Beth, who - in his moment of panic - Daryl had forgotten was still holding his arm.

"This -uh," Daryl tried, but failed to get his words together, drawing a deep belly laugh from Rick.

"Well now I understand why you were so anxious to get home, Daryl" he joked, "if this was the young lady waiting for you."

Daryl felt a flush so deep it must have come from his toes. Lord have mercy, Rick thought that he and Beth were sweethearts. Beth, to her credit, didn't miss a beat. She stepped forward, dropped a short curtsy, and extended her gloved hand.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain," she smiled, 'I'm Elizabeth Greene. Daryl is helpin' on my daddy's farm for the cotton season."

He breathed a sigh of relief - amazed at how she'd managed to set the record straight so elegantly. If Rick took any issue with the fact that they were out to the store together like a proper couple, he had the manners not to show it.

"Wonderful," he said brightly, presenting the woman with him, "this is my wife Lorraine."

"Friends call me Lori," she said, shaking Beth's hand.

"And mine call me Beth," the blonde replied with a pleasant smile.

"Forgive my assumption-" Rick started, but Beth stopped him with a small wave of her hand.

"No harm," she said, returning to Daryl's side and taking his arm once again.

Why wouldn't she stop that? It gave people ideas.

"We were just finishing up collecting a few things before heading back to the farm," Beth said, "I'm sorry to run out so quickly, but we mustn't lose the light."

"How far do you have to travel?" Lori asked.

"Back to Coweta County," Beth responded, "should take us three or four hours."

"Good gracious!" Lori declared, "Did you come all this way for the general store?"

Beth laughed at this.

"Not entirely," she said, "My aunt is the proprietor here, and Daryl had some business in town."

Daryl was supremely grateful that she didn't get into what his business was. He knew that talking about Merle at a time like this could only lead to bad things.

"Well, Beth," Lori started, coming to extract her from Daryl's arm and drag her away for what Daryl assumed was female conversation. He heard something about "must come back" and "ball to benefit the veterans," but he stopped paying attention after that.

"How long are you signed on for at the cotton farm?" Risk asked.

"Through the end of November," he said finally, glad for a question whose answer he knew.

"And then?"

Daryl shrugged. November was a good six months away. He hadn't given it much thought.

"Might come back here, might go somewhere else," he replied noncommittally.

"Might stay on there?" Rick questioned.

"Wouldn't have no reason to," he shrugged.

Rick glanced over to where the ladies had started a conversation with Clara Monroe and raised his eyebrows.

"If you say so, Corporal."

 **Review are the happiest thing! Thank you for reading and much love!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi all! Sorry it's been such a long time! Sometimes life just gets away from you! I tried something a little different in this chapter where it's a few separate moments all from the same day. I hope all the page breaks don't make it annoying. There are also some historical notes at the end if you're interested. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Chapter 10**

"Did you know that Macon is bannin' all celebrations?" Beth asked incredulously, blowing an errant strand of hair out of her face.

"For the whole county?" Patricia asked, rubbing the bar of dark lye laundry soap into the bedsheet she was scrubbing.

"Lucy Palmer's cousin runs the newspaper office there, and she was tellin' me yesterday that the mayor said that they have no cause for frivolity or celebration," Beth replied with a nod.

"It just doesn't seem right," Patricia commented, "I'm not fool enough to think that everything between the two sides will be mended overnight, but not celebratin' Independence Day just feels wrong."

"Daddy says that we have every bit as much right to celebrate at the Yankees," Beth said confidently, "He said that we're celebratin' the spirit of revolution which is particularly Southern."

"Even if we did get licked," Patricia added wryly.

"Well, there is that," Beth admitted, accepting the clean sheet from Patricia and beginning to wring the water out of it from one end.

Doing the washing was one of her least favorite chores. Even though she and Patricia had been doing it together for long enough to have a fool-proof system, it was still the task that annoyed her the most. Every Monday it seemed that there was more laundry than the week before, and it was impossible to finish without getting soaked with sweat and dirty water. At least it was warm out. In the winter, it made her hands so raw and red that she had to use the special balm that Daddy made for the cow's udders.

"Well, I'm glad that the church is still havin'' the picnic," Patricia said finally, "whether Macon County approves or otherwise."

"Think of how much improved the luncheon will be this year!" Beth exclaimed."

Patricia sighed appreciatively, loading the last of the sheets into the graying water.

"Desserts that have real sugar," she said wistfully, "I'll scarcely be able to contain myself."

"And to see fireworks again!" Beth added with excitement.

It had seemed imprudent to set off proper fireworks over the past several years. Even though the fighting hadn't come terribly close to them, the members of the church had all agreed that it was in bad taste to set off anything that might make people nervous. It had been announced in church yesterday, however, that this year's celebration would be every bit as involved as it had in the years before the war. Beth could hardly contain her excitement. She looked to Patricia and, realizing what she'd said a second too late, was dismayed to see the dark look that had rolled over the older woman's face.

Up until he left for the 19th Coweta Infantry Division, Otis had always been the one who was responsible for organizing and lighting the fireworks at the church's Independence Day celebrations. It was something that he planned and looked forward to all year, and he had always done a wonderful job. It hadn't occurred to either woman yet that the reinstatement of the fireworks this year would mean that someone else would have to do it.

"Patricia, how thoughtless of me," Beth said quickly, reaching for her arm, "It just won't be the same without Otis doin' the fireworks."

Patricia made a good show of shooing her hand away and dabbing at the corner of her eyes with the edge of her apron.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Patricia said, with what passed admirably for nonchalance, "As much as I miss him, he'd hate it if there weren't any just because he can't do them."

"Well whoever's doing them this year certainly won't be as good as wh - " Beth started to say, but was cut off by Jimmy's sudden approach. He bounded up the steps to where the two were positioned in the shade of the back porch.

"Everything alright, sweetheart?" Patricia asked - it was strange for Jimmy to be around the house this time of day. He and Daryl wouldn't normally come in until dinner.

"Right as rain, Mama," Jimmy replied, grinning, "Daryl and I were weedin' on the field out near the road and the postman came by with a letter for Beth."

He pulled a creased envelope from his pants pocket.

"It came from Talbotton," he continued, "so I figured I'd better bring it up."

Beth wiped her hands on her apron and reached for it.

"Dinner's only about an hour out," she said, "You could've waited."

Jimmy met her eyes and widened his smile

"Id've hated to make you wait," he said with a wink and in a tone that was just a touch too friendly.

Beth tried her best to keep her smile even. Ever since the week before when she'd ridden into town with Daryl, it seemed that Jimmy had upped the small amount of flirtation that he always seemed to direct her way. Even though there was certainly no type of romance going on between her and Daryl, it must have rubbed Jimmy the wrong way to see them together.

She covered a sigh just considering about it - she really was going to have to do some serious thinking about how to respond to Jimmy. He was nice, easy-going, the same age as her and would be handsome one day. In spite of all of those things, she just couldn't seem to bring herself to think of him as someone who could be a beau. Even if it was what everyone expected.

"That was mighty kind of you," she said with as much neutrality as possible.

"I'd best get back," he replied, never pulling his eyes away from hers.

"See you shortly," she responded, breaking the eye contact first and turning back to the washbin.

The two women watched Jimmy jog back down the lane, and Patricia had the good grace to wait until he was out of earshot to laugh.

"That boy of mine would try to lasso the moon for you if you asked him," she teased, nudging Beth's side with her elbow.

Beth fought the blush that she knew was rising up around her cheeks.

"He's so kind," Beth responded weakly. She was in a tough spot - since her mother died, Patricia had been exactly the person that Beth would have talked this situation out with, but it felt different with her being Jimmy's mama.

"It's alright, Sug," Patricia said, patting Beth's arm, "I already know he's not the one for you. You just keep lettin' him down easy and he'll get the message eventually."

"Well none of us know exactly how things will turn out-" she started feebly, attempting diplomacy, but Patricia stopped her.

"Women should always marry up in age," Patricia stated matter-of-factly "and even though he's a few months older than you, it takes boys a little longer."

Beth let out a sigh of relief that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She was so glad that Patricia had managed to put her feelings into words so well. She was also glad that the older woman wouldn't be offended. No matter how much Beth loved Jimmy, she wasn't _in love_ with him - and now suddenly, it was like she knew the difference.

* * *

Beth had run up to her room for a fresh apron after dinner - her mama had always insisted on starting the supper preparations with a clean one, and it seemed that the habit had rubbed off on her - when she remembered the letter.

She'd been so preoccupied with sorting out her feelings about Jimmy that she'd completely forgotten the letter from Talbotton that she assumed was from her aunt. She pulled it from her pocket and was pleasantly surprised when she split the seal and it wasn't from Aunt Clara at all.

 _My Dear Beth,_

 _It was such a pleasure to meet you last week. Cpt. Grimes and I have been patronizing your aunt's store and hearing about her nieces and nephew for years. I greatly enjoyed putting such a lovely face to one of the names that I've heard so much._

 _I hope this letter finds you well, and that your family's cotton crop is coming along nicely. It's so important that we take every step necessary to restore our great state to its former glory - which brings me to the favor that I've written to ask you. I know that we've only just met, but I felt that we were so friendly that I don't mind asking this of you. Please feel free to tell me if you think it's too much for you._

 _As I told you the day we met, the Ladies' Aide Society here in Talbotton is trying to organize a benefit ball to raise some money for the medical expenses and families of wounded veterans. We've got a lovely hotel ballroom that would be just the spot here in town, but we're beginning to realize that, in order to get the numbers we want, we'll need to ask for some help. It seems to us that if the Societies of Talbot, Meriwether, and Coweta all came together, we could throw a ball big enough to do some real good._

 _I know you're a member of the Society in Senoia, so I was wondering if you'd be willing to be the contact person and organizer for all the ladies in Coweta? We'd like for Coweta to be responsible for producing all of the arts and crafts that we'd sell in booths at the ball. Talbot will handle the supper and the musicians, and I've written to a friend in Meriwether about organizing the theme and decorations._

 _I know it's a big job, and I can certainly contact someone else if you think it'd be too much for you. Please let me know what you think, and either way, I hope that you and your family will be able to attend. We're going to schedule the ball for the end of harvest season, so that it won't be any trouble for people to travel. I look forward to hearing from you soon._

 _With sincere affection,_

 _Lori Grimes_

Beth couldn't stop the smile from creeping onto her face. This was quite a job that Lori Grimes was asking her to do, but she could feel her excitement growing already. She'd been a part of the Ladies' Aide Society since the beginning of the war, but one could only roll bandages and knit socks for so long without feeling like they weren't making any difference. On top of that, the hospitals that cared for the wounded only took married ladies as nurses, because the women there would almost certainly have to see more of an unclothed man than was decent for someone unwed.

But this was a way to really help! Money was something that wounded veterans and their families would desperately need; and if other families were able to turn a profit from their crops this year, then they would certainly be willing to spend a little of it on a benefit ball.

She knew that the Senoia Ladies' Aide would be more than willing to do this, and she could certainly write to the others around the county. Organizing the making of a few extra handcrafts - maybe embroidered handkerchiefs, or crocheted scarves - couldn't be that difficult!

Mind spinning with the possibilities, she hastily pulled a piece of letter paper from her desk and began to scratch out a quick list of ideas. She could hardly wait to talk to everyone about it at supper.

* * *

"Daddy, do you remember me telling you that I met the Talbot County Sheriff and his wife when we were there?" Beth asked across the table as the five of them were scraping the last of their bean stew from their bowls that evening.

"Of course, darlin'" he said, wiping his mouth with an appreciative sigh, "You said that the two of you really hit it off."

"We did," Beth confirmed, slipping the letter from Lori and the list that she'd made earlier from her pocket," well enough that she wrote me today. Look."

She passed both pieces of paper across the table to Hershel.

"She wants me to help organize a charity ball to benefit the families of the wounded veterans," she explained to Patricia, Jimmy, and Daryl as Hershel read the contents of the letter.

"That sounds exciting," Patricia chimed, "What all would you be doin'?"

"Well, there would be ladies in three counties contributin'," Beth added, "And Mrs. Grimes - well, Lori - wants me to organize the Societies in Coweta to create crafts to sell at the ball."

Hershel finished reading and set the papers down next to his empty stew bowl.

"She wants to you to bear all the responsibility for the county?" he asked with the raise of a snowy eyebrow.

"Not to make them all," Beth exclaimed, "Just to write the necessary correspondence to get things started and then figure out a way to collect them and get them to Talbotton for the ball."

"What if you don't get enough?" Hershel inquired, "And how do you plan on gettin' them all in the same place?"

"The ball won't be until after the harvest, Daddy," she answered, "There will be plenty of time to advertise it, and I'm sure that they could all be either dropped off or shipped to the army depot in Senoia. We could pick them up on the way to the ball."

She watched with trepidation as Hershel's brow knit deeper together - a sure sign that he was wary of something.

"It's a worthy cause to be sure, Bethy," he said finally, "but I worry about you doin' all the plannin' on your own."

She glanced at the others for solidarity and found that the rest of her supper companions had their eyes on Hershel. For the first time today, her confidence began to wain.

"I've been in the society since the War started," she explained, "and even though I've never been properly in charge of a project like this, I've already got a plan - see, that's the other page I gave you."

Hershel glanced down at her quickly scrawled list from this afternoon, and she wished she'd taken the time to make it neater. It was a good list - advertising, letter writing, delegating duties to some of the other girls that she knew would be willing to help - but it looked scatter-brained to her now.

"I wish you'd let one of the more experienced members take charge of this," Hershel said with a sigh, and Beth felt her heart sink, "but, you've got that same look that your mama used to get when I knew that she was about to get her way."

So he wasn't going to say no! Much as she wanted to do this, she knew that if her daddy hadn't approved she would have had to write Lori back and decline. She brightened immediately and thanked the Lord above for the thousandth time that Hershel Greene was a man who listened before making sweeping decisions for the members of his family.

"I know I can do it," she urged, and then, "and I promise that if I get overwhelmed, I'll ask for help."

Hershel stood up from the table to move into the sitting room and kissed the top of her head. She heard him mutter something about 'her mother's child' as he moved past her and couldn't stop the smile that beamed across her face.

She put the letter and the list in her pocket and headed back into the kitchen to begin washing up from supper. Patricia followed her, asking Jimmy if he would carry in the dishes over her shoulder.

* * *

Beth was just wiping the counters down with lemon oil, one of her mama's old tricks to keep the kitchen smelling fresh, when Jimmy came in the back door from emptying out the sink bucket.

"Did you rinse it?" Patricia asked, from where she was placing dishes back on their shelves.

"Yes, ma'am," Jimmy responded, "I filled the bucket in the water table for the mornin' too."

Patricia wiped her hands on her apron and patted Jimmy's cheek on her way to the door.

"I'm goin' out to the wagon, darlin'," she said, loosening her apron strings, "You finish up and then come on out - your mama needs to get home and rest."

"I'll be along in just a minute," he assured her.

Beth finished the last counter, and turned to Jimmy.

"I think we're all done," she said with a happy sigh, "but it sounds like no dominoes for you and Daddy tonight."

"Naw," he agreed, "Laundry day always makes Mama sleepy."

"I understand that," Beth commiserated, rolling her neck to stretch the muscles, "it's just about my least favorite chore."

She started to turn the light off and bid Jimmy a good evening, but he stopped her.

"Beth, wait a second," he said, his voice growing serious, "I wanna talk about somethin,"

Oh dear, she sincerely hoped that Jimmy wasn't going to declare his intentions towards her. She wasn't sure she'd know what to say that wouldn't be rude.

"Is somethin' wrong?" she asked, trying to keep the nerves out of her voice.

"Not really," he said, tucking his thumbs into his pants pockets, "I just, well - I think I agree with Hershel about this whole charity ball situation."

Beth blinked, bewildered. What could Jimmy possibly have to add to a decision about her doing a job for the Ladies' Aide? She watched as he shifted his weight nervously, and then abruptly stopped. It was like he was working up the courage to say something.

"I just don't know if I like the idea of you bein' in charge of it for the entire county." he finally said, in what must have been an attempt to sound firm.

Beth still said nothing, as she tried to stop her confusion from growing into annoyance. Why did this matter to him?

"I'd hate to see you disappointed," he continued, taking a step closer to her, "and I don't know if you c-"

She cut him off now, as she began to understand what he was saying.

"You don't think I can handle it," she said bluntly, and probably a little louder than she intended.

"Now, Beth, that's not what I said," he justified.

He added something to the end of that, but she missed it, because she finally placed the tone that he'd adopted. It was proprietary - like he was a family member trying to forbid her from doing something - and its general air of superiority transformed her annoyance to anger before she even had a chance to think about it.

"I don't want to sound rude," she started, her volume level and tone belying that statement, "but I really don't see how the decisions that I make are any of your concern."

"But-" he started, but she interrupted him again.

"We're good friends, Jimmy, and I've always appreciated that," she continued, "but you're not my father, or my brother, or anything other than my friend."

His face fell a little at that last bit, but she couldn't bring herself to feel too bad about it. Jimmy McCune was not her fiance or her husband, and for him to think that he could just make decisions for her was not acceptable. He looked, for an instant, like he was going to say something else, but then thought better of it.

With a deep sigh, he grabbed his hat from where it sat on the kitchen table.

"Good night, Beth," he said, clearly disappointed.

"Good night," she replied firmly. She knew she'd have to apologize for her her tone tomorrow, but this was a thing that Jimmy had to understand.

As he turned to leave out of the front door where his wagon was parked, Beth jerked off her apron and stormed out of the screen door on the back porch. She started for the railing, hoping to catch a breeze, and almost walked slam into Daryl who was leaning against the post, smoking a cheap, paper cigarette.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she exclaimed, her face growing red at the thought that Daryl had heard that whole outburst.

"S'alright," Daryl grunted, "didn't mean to overhear - I's just trying to see which side of the house had a breeze.

"I expect you couldn't help but overhear," she sighed, finally calming down some, "I shouldn't have raised my voice."

"Mmmm," Daryl replied noncommittally.

Beth fanned herself for a minute with the apron in her hand for a moment, and then decided that she better get back inside or else her daddy would wonder what the matter was. Besides, even though she and Daryl were conversational now, she was positive that her complicated relationship with Jimmy was something that he didn't want to discuss.

"Well, good night, Daryl," she said reaching for the door, "I'll see you for breakfast."

"Mmm-hmm," he agreed, taking a drag off of his cigarette, and then to her surprise, "for the record, I think you'll be fine."

"How so?" she asked.

"With your ball," he elaborated, "you'll get it done."

She couldn't stop a smile at that.

"Thank you, Daryl," she said warmly, "I'm mighty glad you think so."

"Well, I sure as fire wouldn't argue with you," he added dryly, the corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile.

She returned the smile sheepishly, and continued into the house, not realizing until she was halfway up the stairs, that this was the first time she could remember having heard Daryl be funny on purpose.

 **Poor Jimmy. He always seemed so desperate to me. Anyhow, now he knows. Also, I considered there being no Bethyl interaction at all in this chapter, but then I just couldn't resist at the end. Also, Daryl humor makes me really happy.**

 **In case you're confused (not from the South or a native English speaker) most old-school Southerners still all 'lunch' 'dinner' and 'dinner' supper.'**

 **Also, I gave the Greenes a relatively modern (for the 1860s anway) kitchen. There's no way they would have had running water at that point, but I did decide to give them one of the old-fashioned dry sinks that you would have to fill and then empty and rinse the basin for. Also, a water table was a low, trough-like thing that was larger than a bucket and saved you from having to make a trip to the well every time you needed a bucket of water. It sat inside your kitchen door and you would fill it once, maybe twice per day. Google them if you're interested - they're kind of pretty!**

 **As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


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